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Metamorphosis || Choi Beomgyu

He was a boy trapped like a bird in a gilded cage, of ruined brushes and swallowed screams, living in a house that smelled of money and rot, where even love had to tiptoe. The only warmth he ever knew was the tired embrace of a woman not by blood, but by heart, and yet even that fragile comfort couldn’t bury the hunger blooming in him for a life beyond the rot disguised as legacy, for a new beginning he never truly believed would come.

You were an uninvited presence in his decaying world, dressed like salvation. But were you truly his salvation, or the temptation that would lead him to ruin? A shadow sent to watch him rise just to see how far he’d fall? And yet if he was to fall, like Icarus chasing the sun he should have feared, then at least he would fall knowing he’d flown.

⊹₊⟡⋆ 37.7k

pairing: choi beomgyu x fem!reader

warnings: this is a work of fiction. if any of the warnings trigger you, please step back from this story right away. i am not responsible for the content YOU choose to consume, thank you. — parental abuse (both verbal and physical), limited perspective, beomgyu's pov centric aka we only know what he knows, themes of manipulation, doomed found family trope (?), reader's background is vague, lots of crying and angst, depiction of murder, character death, heavy reference of Icarus throughout the plot hence arson, lots of metaphors used, ambiguous ending, mention of blood, conflicting morals [definitely missed some lol forgive me]

[MDNI] smut warning: explicit sexual content, dry humping, cowgirl position, cum eating, snowballing (ohmygosh), unprotected sex (not huzzah!), pull out method (not good bro)

Author's note: Remember how I said in the teaser it was going to be 10k? Yeah. I don't usually write anything like Metamorphosis, though this story was written back in 2022 so bringing it back and working on it again felt refreshing. I hope you patiently read through the terrifying new wc and let me know your interpretations. I need to warn you tho - Beomgyu has the survival instinct of a fart here lol I'm sorry for this. There will be no sequel of this story! I want to recommend only one song for you to play on loop as you read this story. It is Someone to Stay by Vancouver Sleep Clinic. Reblogs and feedbacks are appreciated!

“What have I done?”

It was getting rather difficult for Beomgyu to keep the heavy look of censure at bay because the more he worked, the more he began to get aggravated with each brushstroke he had once been so sure of. The shadows he had so painstakingly laid appeared ill-conceived under the afternoon light and the inordinate facial features only enunciated his dissatisfaction. Most offensive of all was the goldenrod hue he had selected for the dress. How terribly it clashed with the red of the subject’s hair — he must have been deranged when he decided on it.

He paused his movements, the bristles of the paintbrush trembling inches away from contacting the canvas as he was reluctant to land another error. The evident clash of loud colours only fueled his frustration towards the piece and it almost made him discard the poor canvas.

“It looks lovely to me.”

Beomgyu startled a little at the sudden presence of the woman. She held a lavish bouquet of yellow roses as she ambled across the pale marble floor. The same cursed shade of yellow that had been tormenting his senses. The flowers swayed with each movement, giving the illusion that they, too, were taunting him. Beomgyu barely managed to stifle the groan forming in his throat.

“Thank you, Miss Hyeeun,” he said, putting his paintbrush down as another sigh escaped shortly after. “But it’s a bit of a disaster. This piece deserves no praise.”

Hyeeun, the head caretaker, hummed as she arranged the bouquet in a vase on the sidetable beside him. Her dainty fingers caressed the soft petals. Beomgyu noticed the few wrinkles that were beginning to grace her skin, and how striking it looked holding the fresh blooms. He made a mental note to paint the scene later. The painting will need a good name as well, won’t it? He’ll surely come up with something captivating.

She looked up from the flowers, arching an eyebrow. “You’re not enjoying yourself,” she stated, brushing her hands on her apron. “Isn’t painting meant to be your greatest delight, young lord?”

Beomgyu made a face. “Oh, do not start with that again. Father isn’t here to eavesdrop behind the doors. There’s no need to call me that.” He tugged on her arm, bringing her in front of the canvas. “Come now, be honest with me. Does that yellow not look dreadful beside the red? Surely a paler tone would suit it better, right?”

“If I were to agree with that,” she muttered, narrowing her eyes, “I’d be adding a few more blocks to my tower of lies.”

Beomgyu frowned at the painting, as if by force of will he might somehow find it improved. But the more he looked, the worse it became. The dress overwhelmed the figure, the figure clashed with the background, and the background — he refused even to acknowledge it. The amount of flaws only piled up. So did the subtle, growing discomfort.

“No,” he said with certainty, “red and yellow simply do not complement one another.”

“It surely doesn't make me think of fried sweets, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Hyeeun gave him a side glance, smiling. It managed to get a laugh from Beomgyu. Then she gently tugged on his ear. “And just so you know, dear, it is a fitting combination.”

“Unfitting,” he murmured, almost under his breath.

Hyeeun exhaled, a breath that almost resembled laughter, though there was no real humour behind it. Beomgyu began to put his tools away. Suddenly, she held his arm and rolled the sleeve of his shirt, baring his skin. It startled him and before he could snatch his arm away, Hyeeun had already seen it.

Dark patches littered his pale skin — blues and violets tangled with sallow yellow edges.

"Oh, heavens above," she gasped, eyes widening as she took in the state of him.

Beomgyu tried to smile, though it barely reached the corners of his mouth. "It’s all right, Miss Hyeeun," he said gently, placing a hand on her shoulder. His fingers were smudged with oil, and his thumb left a faint mark on the fabric of her blouse. "They don’t hurt so much anymore, see? They’re beginning to heal."

The bruises were hardly more than three days old. Or was it four? He wasn’t sure. Time blurred when his body decided to forget. His mind, clever as it was, had learnt to tuck the worst bits into the furthest corners – something Beomgyu was glad he was capable of doing. After all, he had survived this long.

Hyeeun sucked in a sharp breath. “He’s a monster.” Her voice was trembling, eyes were glossy. Her hand, which had fallen away from his sleeve, now clutched at her apron. The sight tugged on his heart.

Without a word, Beomgyu wrapped his arms around the woman. She was smaller than he remembered, her back hunched with age and burden. He rested his chin on her shoulder.

"How could anyone treat a boy like this? The boy he brought into his home — how could he?"

Beomgyu smiled ruefully. He was glad she hadn’t called him that man’s son. She never did, and he cherished her all the more for it.

“It’s okay. You know I’m used to it by now,” he assured her.

When they drew apart, Hyeeun’s hands found his arms once more. Her fingers were rough from years of washing linen and chopping roots, but they were careful as they skimmed over his skin, avoiding the darkest bruises. Her thumbs moved in small circles near the edges. “You don’t deserve this. No child deserves to live in fear.”

“I don’t live in fear,” Beomgyu retorted. “I have you.”

Hearing him, Hyeeun let out a tearful laugh. It was a simple act yet it managed to ease the thumping discomfort in his chest. How could he not feel safe? She’s the only one in the house who treated him like a human being.

“Do you know why I never left this manor even after knowing how cruel that man is?” she asked. Beomgyu knew but he chose to stay silent, letting her finish. “It’s because of you. The day he brought you home from the orphanage, you looked so small and lost, Beomgyu. I told myself then—if he’s staying, then so am I. Someone had to be there for you." She was staring at the floor now, her expression twisted. "That lowlife bastard. He made your life a living hell."

Beomgyu shook his head. He cupped her face, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “Well, he’s not doing a really good job at that either. Because I know I have someone who loves and cares for me.” — Which wasn’t entirely true but having someone like her by his side made the hell worth living.

Hyeeun’s teary eyes softened, the wrinkles at the corners deepening and it almost made Beomgyu’s eyes moisten. For a brief moment, it almost felt alright. But it all came crashing down when a thunderous voice rang behind the closed doors through the halls and all the colours drained from Beomgyu’s face at once. The panic in his eyes was so vivid, so alarming that he whipped his head towards the door — high on alert — as if that person would be here at any moment.

He wasn’t the only one who was in shock. Hyeeun was bewildered as well. Her voice came faintly. “He’s not meant to be back ‘til next week…”

That was true. Beomgyu’s father had only just departed for his business trip the day before. So why was he here now? And he was looking for Beomgyu. Beomgyu’s senses came back to him. His father was looking for him.

“You’ve got to go,” Beomgyu said urgently, already pushing Hyeeun toward the adjoining door.

All of her protests fell deaf to his ears. Hyeeun can't be seen with him. If his father saw her with him beside the painting — god knows what he’ll do to her and Beomgyu could never let anything happen to the only person who made this hellhole feel like a home to him.

“Beomgyu, wait—” she whispered-yelled, desperate. “He’ll hurt you.”

Her face was breaking as she clutched onto his hand. Beomgyu could tell she knew he was scared yet he put on a big grin for her. It was feeble and flickered out just as fast, but it was the best he could manage.

“I’ll be fine,” he assured, again. He reached for the doorknob, giving her that final push toward the corridor. “But you won’t be if he sees you.”

With that he closed the door, trying to control his heartbeat as he moved away and walked towards the canvas. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead as he heard the footsteps getting louder and in the blink of an eye the main door to the room flew open. Beomgyu didn’t move an inch. He held his breath in.

Standing at the door was a relatively shorter man but with a strong build. An aura of power and superiority hung in the air around him as walked in. The man didn’t bat an eye at Beomgyu and instead let his gaze travel around the room. It stopped on the canvas. Beomgyu felt his throat go dry, already knowing what was about to come.

As if fire had ignited, his father’s eyes lit up like an animal. He turned, nostrils flaring, and strode across the room with long, firm strides toward Beomgyu.

“You impudent little runt!” he barked, and before Beomgyu could so much as take a step back, the man’s hand had already lashed out.

The slap cracked through the air like a whip. Beomgyu’s head snapped to the side, his cheek immediately burning. He didn’t stumble, but his eyes watered and he clenched his jaw, the coppery taste of fear — or blood — thick on his tongue. He was sure the slap left a weal behind already.

A stunned silence followed, only the anger flared breathing of his father reached him because he was now standing right before him.

“How many blasted times do I need to tell you? Painting’s not for men!” the man spat, his large hand now balled around Beomgyu’s collar, dragging him forward.

“I’m sorry,” Beomgyu whispered, looking down.

“Oh, you will be sorry.”

With brute force, his father shoved him backward. The breath left Beomgyu’s chest as he staggered, nearly losing his footing. Beomgyu’s eyes widened as his father picked up a bottle of paint, remorselessly hurling it straight at the canvas.

Red.

It spattered across the canvas in messy rivulets that bled down the stretched linen and pooled onto the pristine white marble below. Disbelief and anger engulfed the boy but he remained silent, balling his fists as his nails dug crescents on the supple flesh. He waited for his father’s next move because Boemgyu knew it wouldn't simply end there.

The man approached him again. His eyes were glowering as his hand went for Boemgyu’s face again. Was he going to hit him again? It'd be a hassle for the wound to heal if he hit him on the same spot. He wasn't met with another slap. Instead, a burning pain shot through his scalp. This time he couldn’t bite back his yelp.

“Never,” his father spat through gritted teeth, yanking his hair, “pick up a paintbrush again.” Another wrench, this time enough to feel like hair being plucked off, and Beomgyu clenched his jaw through the sting of fresh tears. “Do you understand, boy?”

Silent tears rolled down his cheeks, the pain making him cry involuntarily. “I understand, father.”

The man left once he heard him speak. His retreating figure vanished through the doorway, leaving behind a room still humming with the remnants of his fury.

Beomgyu remained still for a moment, the sting in his scalp fading only slightly, replaced by the slow burn of anger and shame. He raised one hand, pressing his palm to his cheek, where the slap still throbbed in a bright, pulsing ache. His fingers were tacky with red paint now, mixing with the dampness from his tears. He took a breath through his nose, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. However, he was glad that was all his father did. A slap, no matter how much it stung, was better than bruised ribs or a fractured wrist. It would fade quickly enough.

The mess on the canvas was beyond salvaging, not that it mattered. He was going to paint over it anyway. The floor would be a problem. He looked around to search for any other places that had paint on and visibly flinched when he found it.

The red paint had touched the yellow roses.

The vibrance of the yellow extinguished as red traversed, streaks of it curved down their edges like veins, soaking into the softness with an almost grotesque contrast. It was enchanting to look at but in a discomforting way. He stared at it for a while before scoffing.

“I knew it. Red and yellow don't complement one another.”

He often escaped through the backdoor of the manor after such cruel ordeals, slipping past the kitchens and silent corridors, past the ornate arches and manicured hedges that had long since lost their meaning, until he reached the place where the stone path gave way to earth. A soft canopy of green filtered the light above him, its rustling leaves offering something close to reprieve. The groundskeeper no longer came out this far as no guests were shown this way, and the flowers here were left to bloom or wither on their own.

The path sloped gently into a shallow dirt road, broken in places and littered with dry leaves. It gave way to a small lake at the very outskirts of the manor's reach, where the water, still and golden in the afternoon light, reflected little of the estate’s imposing image. It was secluded enough to feel like a separate world. Out here, the land stopped obeying, and the estate lost its leash and that was precisely why Beomgyu came here. He found a strange comfort in that. This was where he could breathe without having to constantly look over his shoulder in fears of being watched.

The staff in the manor never participated in the abuse, but they didn't do anything to stop it either. Beomgyu understood the fear deeply rooted in them, and also how they’re bound to his father’s authority because they don't wish to bite the hand that feeds them. It didn’t mean he felt any less alone.

He wandered aimlessly, not looking for anything in particular, stepping over fallen branches and dipping his shoes into the wet earth as he walked toward the lake, where the view opened up wide and the sky was allowed to stretch. His thoughts felt too loud in the stillness. He pressed his palm to the back of his neck, trying to ground himself, letting his eyes close.

It was there, beside a twisted old willow, that he heard it. A soft melody — almost like a lullaby — carried by the wind.

Beomgyu frowned, uncertain if he imagined it. He hesitantly looked around the expanse of nature, feeling a little conscious because no one was supposed to be here. At least, no one has been here for years anyway. As long as he could remember, it was just him.

Still the melody continued, the faint sweet sound drew him in. His steps quietened as he left the trail, brushing past overgrown hedges and vines that caught at his sleeves.

It was just beyond the slope near the lake’s edge that he saw you.

Sitting leaning against a tree, back to him, knees tucked up as you balanced something in your lap. It was a small, wooden instrument, its polished surface catching small dappled specks of sunlight that filtered through the canopy. You played with care, thumbs dancing slowly over the keys.

Beomgyu almost turned back. He didn’t know you — what were you doing here?

But something in the melody held him there. The part you began to play was familiar. It was familiar not in a way he could identify, but it was there, lodged in the hollows of memory, where time pressed its thumbprint and left things dusty but intact. His heart churned, not understanding why he felt that way. He knew this melody. He had heard it before, he was sure of it, but where? It slipped just beyond reach, like a name he should’ve remembered.

Your fingers halted in their movement abruptly, though your shoulders stayed relaxed. Beomgyu had not expected to be noticed but you turned your head and looked directly at him. Your eyes didn’t flicker in surprise, nor did you fidget or make any show of being caught unaware. If anything, you looked like you had expected him. You offered a small smile almost as if you were welcoming a neighbor instead of a stranger.

“Oh,” you said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Didn’t think anyone came out this far.”

He blinked, awkwardly aware of how out of place he felt now. “Neither did I,” he replied, then immediately wished he hadn’t. He sounded so stupid. What else was he supposed to say? He should have asked who you were, what you were doing here, why you were playing that tune — but something about your presence made it hard to summon suspicion.

You didn’t look like someone out of place. In fact, in his mind it felt like you were the remaining puzzle piece needed to finish the entire scenery. You looked like you belonged here more than he ever had.

“I hope I didn’t bother you,” you added, gently placing the kalimba on your lap. “The sound carries, I guess.”

“No, it’s... fine.” He hesitated, then nodded at the instrument. “That song… it’s—it sounds familiar. What’s it called?”

Your gaze sharpened just slightly but the smile didn’t slip. It made Beomgyu’s skin crawl a little, the goosebumps settling down persistently. “Really?” you said after a pause that wasn’t long enough to be awkward. “I’m afraid you’re probably mistaking it for some other melody. My parents used to sing it to me. It’s old and personal.”

He nodded, though he felt mildly foolish for asking so directly. He shouldn’t have said it like that, so brash outright. He was about to apologize but you laughed lightly.

“What else does it sound like other than familiar?”

What an odd question. He was caught off guard again, and his brows pulled together. It wasn’t a question he’d expected but Beomgyu found himself pondering, eyes narrowing faintly in thought. He tried to put the feeling into words. “Feels like a dream I forgot.”

You tilted your head at that, your gaze flicking to the side before returning to him. Your expression was thoughtful in a way that made Beomgyu stand a little straighter. Then you smiled, and this time there was a trace of approval in it. “That’s a nice way to put it. You’re an artist.”

“Pardon?” Beomgyu gaped at you. His posture stiffened, unsure of how you’d drawn that conclusion from so few words, from so short a meeting.

You only smiled again, putting the kalimba inside the small satchel by your side. "Only someone who sees the world in shapes and metaphors says things like that. Besides, look at your hands."

You stood up, brushing your clothes as you pointed a finger at his hands. He had cuffed the sleeves up to his arms. The red paint from earlier still decorated his skin as he didn’t clean it off, but what made him squirm on spot was the bruises that too were on display, and for you to see. Beomgyu thought you were pointing at those so he quickly began to cover them by tugging his sleeves down.

You had approached him by then, startling him by gently taking his hands into yours. Your hands were soft and clean unlike his calloused, paint and bruise tainted ones.

“You have pretty hands.” You looked up at him, squeezing his hands lightly. “Exactly like an artist’s.”

Beomgyu didn’t know what to do with your words. They weren’t coated with mockery. You hadn't looked away from him, not once, and though the bruises were in plain sight, you didn’t recoil or ask about them. It was simply as if they didn’t redefine what you saw when you looked at him.

The things you said, the things you did, and the way you’d arrived here and folded into this moment weren’t necessarily odd but at the same time they were.

“Who are you?” he quietly asked.

Beomgyu expected you to step away from him but you didn’t. Instead, your grin seemed to have regained a newer kind of life to it as you slightly leaned in towards him. “What do you want me to be? A friend, a stranger, or a dream?”

A gust of wind blew overhead, making the trees sing and the leaves dance around you and him. A ripple washed over the lake in subtle motion, its surface shifting just enough to catch the late afternoon light in warped patterns, as if nature herself waited with you in silence to hear his answer.

Beomgyu’s mind went into a static silence. His mouth parted but no words came out. Your hands were warm as you held him and that did little to no help making thoughts articulate easier for him. His silence rang loudly in his ears, or wait, was it his breathing? His heartbeat? The sound of his blood rushing into his ears, perhaps? He felt dizzy.

Before he could spiral even further, your soft laughter reached out and pulled him out of his mind like pulling him out from under a water surface. You hid your laugh behind a hand before using it to wave him off dismissively.

“I'm joking, I'm joking! I'm sorry for messing with you.” You let go of his hands and Beomgyu suddenly felt like he was losing his grip on the world. “I was looking for a quiet spot to play my kalimba and stumbled upon this place. I hope I didn't trespass… I didn’t think this area would have people around.”

Your explanation sounded believable. You looked like you were telling the truth too. You really had nothing else with you, just you and the kalimba, as if you’d simply wandered into the scene from somewhere outside the borders of his world. And technically, you weren’t trespassing. This stretch of land wasn’t private property — at least not under the holdings of his father — so there wasn’t any reason to accuse you of wrongdoing.

Even after conversing with himself in his mind over the rationality of your appearance, he could not speak. And you must have noticed, because you tilted your head just a little, your expression more apologetic than teasing now.

“I’ve probably already confused you enough for one day,” you said, and even though you spoke with a smile your words weren’t comforting to say the least. You were walking away. Your back was now facing him, already a few steps ahead and it didn’t sit right with him.

Beomgyu blinked as if just waking from a daydream. For the first time since you’d approached him, he felt his mind working. — “Will I see you again?” — or maybe no.

It came out more strained than he liked, not because he was desperate or flustered but because the words surprised even him. The moment he said them, he wasn’t sure whether he regretted asking.

The wind had stilled, and your fingers, which had been playing with the edge of your sleeve just a moment ago, fell still at your side. He recoiled internally, because up till now he was assuming you were the odd one between the two of you and now he went and asked such an absurd question. Oh God he must've sounded like a pervert. Hyeeun would be so disappointed.

But you turned slightly, and you did not smile rather had your gaze downwards on the grassy land. It was a different look from what you wore just moments before. It was more solemn, more rueful.

“If you wish for something with all your heart,” you said without trying to imply more than what the words meant, “it will come true, right?”

The hair on his arms and neck rose as goosebumps kissed his skin the moment you faced him as you said ‘right’ with a small tug of your lips. He felt compelled to look away and every atom in his body was screaming at him to run yet he didn’t want to. The intensity in your gaze enchanted him as much as it made his stomach churn uncomfortably.

“Goodbye, Beomgyu.”

He shifted slightly on his feet, a breath catching at the back of his throat as he tried to regain his balance. It wasn’t until you were already out of sight, your form swallowed up by the trees and their shadows, that the realization struck him cold and fast.

He never gave you his name.

It was one of those weary, sleepless nights, where Beomgyu lay in bed with his eyes fixed on the blank expanse overhead. The moonlight that slipped through the edges of the heavy curtains cast faint patches across the walls, and the stillness of the room was far too suffocating to be warm.

His cheek still ached. The maids had noticed; a few hours later, one had returned with an ice pack tucked in a folded cloth napkin, her fingers twitching nervously as she handed it over without meeting his eyes. Albeit some hesitated in fear of getting caught, they couldn’t hide the pity filling their eyes when they saw him. In between his loneliness, he still found reasons to be thankful whenever they did this much for him.

He turned to his side and closed his eyes, hoping that the simple act of shutting out the world might finally lull him into sleep, yet as soon as his eyelids met, that fragile attempt dissolved, leaving him trapped in a restless limbo where thoughts drifted aimlessly. Each night, the same battle raged within Beomgyu, wrestling with the tides of self-reproach, regret, and a gnawing sense of weakness that clung to him and asking why he hadn’t done more. Why did he never fight back?

There were never any answers, only that this was his life now. He had grown used to it. He was forced to grow used to it. His mind wandered through the memories of those countless sleepless nights, the haunting image of the roses tainted with red, the chaos he could neither control nor escape, and the youth he felt slipping away, bartered and sacrificed to forces beyond his command.

Unexpectedly, he thought of you. A sudden jolt of anxiety coursed through his chest as your presence echoed in the corners of his mind, leaving him bewildered and unsettled by the perplexing fact that you had spoken his name without him ever giving it away.

He shifted onto his back, staring up at the ceiling now illuminated only by the muted moonlight filtering through the curtains. His mind now more awake and alert despite the late hour, anxiety tightening its grip as he considered the reach of his father’s reputation. Granted his father was a man widely recognized as a famous assemblyman but he had hardly ever let the spotlight fall on Beomgyu. Beomgyu remained a shadow, scarcely seen and even less spoken of, his name almost lost amid the noise of his father’s power, making the fact that you had known it all the more unsettling and inexplicable.

Just then, a soft knocking pattern interrupted the swirl of his thoughts. Already knowing who stood on the other side, he sat up wiping a hand over his face to dispel the tension etched into his features. When the door creaked open, relief settled over him like a balm as Hyeeun entered briskly, her steps hurried yet careful as she crossed the room and wrapped him in a firm embrace that squeezed the breath from his lungs. It’s as if all the pain washed away from the prior incident of the morning the moment Hyeeun appeared into his room.

Pulling away she let her concerned gaze sweep over the angry swelling blooming across his face. “I heard from the other girls,” she said, the sight made her wince involuntarily. “I wish I had the power to save you from this man,” she added, her voice catching slightly as she battled the frustration and helplessness that so often accompanied the helplessness of watching someone you cared for suffer.

Beomgyu placed a hand on hers, the smile never fading. He was truly lucky, he thought, to have someone who still cared for him. That care was a luxury he often felt he hadn’t earned yet Hyeeun gave it freely.

She had raised him herself from the first moment he arrived at the estate, barely tall enough to reach the table and thin as a reed. She made sure he ate, even when he claimed he wasn’t hungry. She taught him his letters with the same care she used to scrub his muddy knees clean after he'd fallen in the garden. At night, she would tuck him into bed and smooth down his hair, pressing a kiss to his head, soft and instinctive, as if he’d always been hers.

His father — the man who had taken him in for reasons Beomgyu still couldn’t fully comprehend back then — had never even bothered to ask whether he needed help with anything; never once checked if he had enough to wear in the winter or if he was struggling to keep up with his lessons. All of that had fallen to Hyeeun, who bore the burden without ever treating it like one. And when his father’s temper turned violent, when a misplaced word or broken glass resulted in bruises darkening his ribs or his arms, it had been Hyeeun who sat beside him late into the night, treating his wounds and humming under her breath. Her hands, though aged by work, were always careful, never trembling even when he winced. If she hadn’t been there, if he hadn’t had her steady presence at his side through those long, difficult years, Beomgyu was certain he wouldn’t still be here.

She had already done more for him than most mothers did for their own children. Beomgyu suddenly became aware of the lump in his throat. He needed her to know how much he appreciated her.

“On that day…” he began, voice hoarse as he tried to recall it clearly, though time had made some of it hazy. “I wasn't looking at him. In fact, I was looking at you. I felt safe just by your presence, and the way you stared at me — with so much love. I felt I was already loved.”

There was a pause as he exhaled, laughing breathlessly like he was almost embarrassed to admit it. “Quite funny, isn't it? Because I didn't even know you back then. Yet—” he swallowed hard, feeling the familiar tightness at the base of his neck. “Yet something in my mind told me I'd be the happiest if I accepted to be adopted in this family.”

His gaze dropped, fixed on the carpet beneath their feet hoping the pattern might distract him. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her. If he did, he was sure everything he’d worked to suppress would come spilling out in an instant.

“And I know no one will agree with me if I say it — I truly am the happiest despite the things he put me through. Only because of you.”

His voice cracked so he bit down on his lower lip until the pressure bordered on pain, anything to stop himself from losing control. But it became harder to hold back when he felt her hand on his cheek gently coaxing his face upward. Her eyes met his, steady and full of a kind of ache that mirrored his own.

“You’re the closest to someone I can call a mother.

Tears slipped down his face but he didn’t bother wiping them away. There was shame, yes — in crying so openly, in being reduced to this state but there was also a strange sense of relief. He let himself be pulled into her arms once more, head bowed as rubbed comforting circles on his back. He cried until it felt like there was nothing left inside, until the tension in his shoulders began to ease and his body sagged with exhaustion.

“I’m going to get you out of here. I promise you, dear,” Hyeeun said softly, her voice filled with a quiet resolve that might’ve sounded more reassuring in another time, another place.

Beomgyu wanted to believe her but the words, kind as they were, felt hollow not because he doubted her intent, but because the world they lived in didn’t allow for such easy escapes.

Beomgyu heartily wished to find some way to leave the place with her. “I want you to leave with me,” he whispered. “Wherever I go, I want you to be with me.”

The older woman sighed with a sad smile. She squeezed his hand again — a gesture of reassurance, even if it carried more sadness than comfort. Maybe they both knew that saying such things was the only way to keep themselves afloat. It was in this lull, in this shared exhaustion where no one was trying to pretend strength anymore, that Beomgyu suddenly straightened with the flicker of a thought that hadn’t occurred to him until now.

“Have you perhaps... heard of any girl visiting the lake outside the estate?” — what were the odds? But if anyone knew of strange visitors, it would be Hyeeun. She managed the estate with a precision built from decades of service, and little ever happened around here without her catching wind of it. If she hadn't seen you, then perhaps no one did.

He was hoping, somehow, that she would say yes, that there’d been whispers or at least passing remarks from the groundskeepers or someone who might have seen a figure by the water.

“A girl?” she repeated, the crease between her eyebrows deepening. “No, dear, I haven’t. The lake is open to the public, so I wouldn’t be surprised if there are people out there walking around the place. But I haven’t heard of any particular visitor. Why? Is something the matter?”

She spoke while adjusting the edge of the woolen shawl draped over her shoulder, glancing at him with mild concern. If Hyeeun hadn’t seen you, hadn’t heard anything about you, then maybe you really had just wandered there on a whim, exactly like you said. There was a chance you’d never show up again, that this strange interruption to his life would stay just that: a one-time disruption.

But that didn’t explain how you knew his name. That detail kept catching in his mind like a thorn, refusing to let go and worse, it made him want to see you again. He hoped you came back so he could ask you himself how you knew his name.

He didn’t even know your name.

He didn’t want her to worry so he shook his head with a small shrug. "No, there’s no problem. You should get some rest. It’s getting late. I’ll try to sleep too. I'm tired."

Sleep eluded him entirely that night, and when his eyes did shut, his dreams twisted around the shape of you, around the tune you played and those eyes he couldn’t forget, as if they’d been watching him far longer than he realized.

Who will I be when I wake after enduring?

He hasn't picked up a paintbrush since then. The brushes had gathered dust at the back of the cupboard where Hyeeun hid them after wiping the blood off his bruises. Over time, Beomgyu had learned what could and could not be done under his father’s roof from the consequence of every innocent act that displeased the man who ruled over the estate like a god with no heaven, only wrath.

There were never no words to guide him, only the bruises that followed if he wandered too far into himself.

He could step out into the garden. He could take a walk as far as the border of the lake. He could even sit idly by the gazebo with a book in his lap. But the moment he picked up a brush, the moment his fingers touched paint, it became a rebellion. Painting was possession of the self, and in his father’s world, no one owned themselves but him.

His father believed a person with passion is a person with desire, and desire breeds autonomy. Autonomy, to a man like his father, was the root of disobedience. Passion lit fires, and he hated fires unless he was the one to set them. So he set fire to the wings Beomgyu just started to mold on himself, stripped him off of his passion and put him behind the bars of a gilded cage that was his father's control.

Since he was allowed to leave the manor, he kept going back to the lake in hopes of seeing you. But it’s been days, and you never showed up. Yet every day since, he returned to the tree where you once sat as though retracing the same dream over and over, hoping you’d step out again like a trick of the light.

Some days he stayed until the first star appeared and the wind grew colder, brushing through his clothes and reminding him that he had a house to return to, even if it never felt like home. Other times, he left just after the sun disappeared behind the trees, the sky a bleeding orange that faded too quickly into grey.

There was no logic to his waiting, just the persistent itch that maybe you’d come back. Perhaps when you do, you’ll offer some clue to why you knew his name and comfort his crumbling mind. Maybe you’ll say something that would make him feel less mad for being haunted by a single meeting. He hoped, and hoped, and hoped.

Should he start wishing with all his heart, just like you said, to make you come back?

Beomgyu’s eyes snapped open as heat crawled up his neck. He was lying under the tree, the soft blades of the grass tickling his skin and the dappled shadow of the leaves fell on him. He sat up abruptly, grunting softly and shaking his head as if that could physically shake off his prior thought.

“I think I'm going crazy,” he murmured, eyes casting downward on his lap.

“Why’s that?”

He didn't scream though it felt like his heart had tried to. It jolted violently in his chest, knocking the breath clean out of his lungs as pain bloomed somewhere under his ribs. He doubled over slightly, hand splaying against his sternum as he tried to pull himself together. But his heartbeat picked up again when his eyes found you.

Leaning sideways against the tree you stood there, half-shadowed by the dappled light filtering through the tree canopy. Hands were clasped behind your back and your eyes were on him, watching with a calm that made it impossible to tell whether you had just arrived or had been standing there all along. You were smiling, like always.

“You came back,” he said, barely more than a breath.

You walked toward him, steps muffled by grass, and crouched down beside him. You settled cross-legged in the grass, your skirt fanning out around you, knees brushing against the edge of his shin.

There was a pomegranate in your hand.

It looked heavy in your hands, its thick skin cracked down the middle like it had split open under its own ripeness. With nimble fingers, you worked it apart, thumbs pressing into the rind, and slowly pulled the halves away from each other. Some of the seeds spilled into your waiting palm, glistening red and slick like beads of glass. One by one, you plucked the arils free, cradling them, letting the juice stain your fingertips in blotches.

“You say that like I disappeared,” you replied without looking at him.

“You did,” Beomgyu said, and this time he sat up straighter. The pain had dulled to a throb. It felt distant now, overpowered by the sudden clarity of being near you again. “I waited here. For days.”

That finally earned him your eyes, tilting your head as though seeing him under new light. “Did you? That was sweet of you. But why?”

Why? — the question cut cleanly through the haze he hadn’t realized he’d fallen into. Up until then, he’d been far more interested in watching the way your fingers pressed into the fruit, how the juice soaked your hands until it dripped down to your wrists in thin crimson trails. He found himself too spellbound by the color against your skin more than he was unnerved.

“I never told you who I was,” he said finally. “How did you know my name?”

You glanced back on the fruit. “Didn’t you?”

“No,” Beomgyu’s brows pulled together, a slight twitch of confusion and discomfort darkening his features. “No, I didn’t. I’m sure I didn’t."

"Beomgyu," you said, the name drawn out gently, not as if correcting him but as if reminding. As if it had slipped only from his memory and not yours. You plucked a seed from your palm, turning it in your fingers. "You’re doing it again."

He blinked. "Doing what?"

You glanced up again, the movement languid. There was no challenge in your expression, only a vague softness that made his chest tighten. "Misremembering. You always do this when you’re flustered."

"That’s not—" He paused, recalibrating. "Always? We’ve met once."

You held the seed gently against his lips and he, caught in the spell of you, parted them. The seed slipped onto his tongue, and his lips closed around it with the faintest press. Juices traversed from your fingers to his mouth staining his lower lip a vivid red.

You tilted your head with a hum. "Mm. You think so."

The words landed strange and off-kilter. A trap he hadn't realized he’d stepped into until now and yet, part of him wanted to explain himself — to justify the gap in memory he was sure existed. To prove, somehow, that he hadn’t forgotten.

But instead, his voice came out thinner. "You’re saying I told you my name, and… I just forgot?"

You nodded once, as if he’d finally caught on to something obvious. “Well, I suppose it’s easier to think I’m the one making things up.”

He bristled. "That’s not what I meant."

You popped a seed in your own mouth, making a sound that near suggested you weren’t wounded. "Of course not. I’m teasing. But yes, you told me. You were standing exactly over there, and I remember thinking — Beomgyu. It suits him.” You held out a few seeds gripped in between your fingers toward him. “It really suits such an artistic person like him.”

The memory didn't exist in his head — but the way you said it, with such conviction, such warmth, he began to wonder. Did he say it? Maybe he had said it.

He’d read somewhere that trauma reshaped memory like heat to wax. That the brain could tuck things away in corners too high to reach, especially when it didn’t want to remember. It made sense, in a cruel sort of way. After everything with his father, after all the ways he’d learned to forget for survival’s sake, it was almost laughable to think his own name might’ve been lost in the shuffle but maybe it had.

His lips parted and he tilted his head back, allowing your waiting hand to drop the pomegranate seeds into his mouth. A few drops of red juice tricked down your finger and fell on his lips like blood droplets. He felt it trail down his chin but the thought of wiping it away didn’t surface in his mind when he watched how you watched him.

You watched him come away stained red by you, like watching the seeds take root.

"You even said it twice," you added, eyes back on the fruit. "The second time, you said it like you weren’t sure I’d heard it the first time."

The taste burst over his mouth — tart and sweet. He licked his chapped lips to wet them, licking the remnants of the red. He wiped his chin too. "That… doesn’t sound like me."

"No," you agreed, as if this, too, was a kindness. "But maybe that’s why it stuck with me."

He couldn’t tell if you were comforting him or disarming him. Silence unspooled between you. He studied your face, looking for any trace of a play. But you only looked thoughtful, almost fond. Finally, he exhaled, the fight leaving his shoulders. With a sheepish twitch of his mouth he said, "Then I guess I owe you an apology."

"For what?"

His eyes dropped to your stained hands before answering, then to the split open fruit on your lap. "For forgetting. I really… I really don’t remember saying it."

You nodded, the corners of your mouth lifting, as if pleased that everything had fallen back into place. “There you go.” You didn’t avert your gaze. "That’s alright. It happens to you often, doesn’t it? Ah, well, I’m assuming it does."

To anyone else, your statement might have sounded like an offhand comment, but Beomgyu had already come to understand that your words were rarely just that. Though he still hadn’t figured out if you meant half the things you said or simply enjoyed the act of saying them. But it didn’t bother him. In fact, he found himself waiting for your voice to fill the air again simply because it’s different from what he knew.

He assumed you were just unusually good at stringing together patterns from the vaguest of things. From the small details he had shared, you pieced together pictures of him so complete it was fascinating, really. He had met many sharp minds, but none that made the process of deduction look like a pastime. You seemed to understand people on a level that made him feel like he was under a microscope, only he didn't mind it. Quite the opposite. He found himself drawn in by it.

You popped a few more pomegranate seeds into your mouth. One half of the fruit had already been picked clean, left hollow and glistening with residue, while the other half still brimmed with untouched seeds that caught the light with every small shift of the sky above.

"Hold this for a moment," you said, passing him the heavier half of the fruit before rising. "I’ll be right back. I just need to wash my hands."

With that, you made your way slowly toward the lake, then gained lightness as you reached the slope and jogged the rest of the way down. Beomgyu watched your figure dip near the bank, the shallow wind lifting your hem just slightly as you crouched near the water. He quietly followed until he approached you after a beat, watching the way your fingers moved through the water.

The red bled from your skin in long, graceful tendrils that curled like smoke before dispersing entirely. It reminded him of how his paintbrushes looked after a day spent in color — soaked and stained, then suddenly washed clean in one long motion. He waited in silence, the quiet around you was held there by the sound of water lapping against the rocks and the distant rustle of the wind through nearby reeds.

“You didn’t tell me your name,” he said suddenly. “I remember that much.”

Your hand paused mid-motion. You didn’t look up, eyes stayed trained on the ripples spreading out from your hand.

“I don’t have one,” you said.

If there was hesitation in your voice, it was impossible to name. However, there was certainly a tinge of detachment in the way you said, your tone lacking all your prior wittiness.

Beomgyu let out a soft laugh, shaking his head as he looked down at the fruit in his hands. “That’s impossible. Everyone has a name.”

You drew a line across the water with your finger, watching how the ripples distorted the reflection of the sky. “Do they?” you asked, finally turning to glance at him. “Or is that just something people need to believe to make sense of themselves?”

He smiled despite himself. Of course you’d say that. He did feel the urge to reply, to counter with logic, with reason, but your gaze subtly unsettled him — not in a bad way though. It was your eccentric personality that made every conversation feel like you were making a game out of it, or maybe trying to see if he could keep up. Maybe that’s what made this feel refreshing. He wasn’t used to being around people who made the world feel this unpredictable.

“A name is your most prized possession,” he said, holding up the fruit like it could serve as evidence. “You should treat it like treasure.”

You were watching him now, searching for something in his face. “That’s lovely,” you said, a faint curve to your lips. “But I think names are more interesting when they’re earned. Don’t you?”

He stilled because he suddenly wasn’t sure where this was going, and he didn’t want to miss a single turn. The breeze pushed past again, scattering a few leaves near his feet.

“You want me to…?” he began, trailing off.

"I want you to give me one," you said at last, standing slowly. Water slid down your fingers and dripped onto the grass below. The pomegranate seeds in his hand glistened like they were watching too.

Beomgyu studied you for a moment longer than perhaps he meant to, his gaze holding a curious stillness. You closed the distance between you with a small step, the grass bending faintly beneath your shoes, your fingers brushing against his as you plucked the half-pomegranate from his palm. The fruit sat in your hand like a stolen jewel but in his eyes it resembled a bleeding heart.

“If you’re offering treasure,” you began, eyeing up at him playfully, “I want to see what kind. But don’t toss it at me like a bone to a stray. Think carefully. Let it come to you like it was meant to.”

His brow rose a fraction, a spark of competitiveness in his tone. “And what do I get in return?”

You tapped the tip of your finger against the fruit’s rind, pretending to think. “Well, you’re not wrong. I do already have a name,” you said, lips curving in a way that didn’t quite match the offhand nature of your words. “And I am, admittedly, toying with you. But—” your voice stretched, eyes narrowing in a mock appraisal, “if you manage to come up with something I actually like, I’ll tell you my real name.”

He nodded slowly. “Alright. I’ll think about it.”

“Good,” you replied, smiling in a way that caught the dimming light like the sky catching fire before night took it. “I’d hate for you to forget again.”

Beomgyu never registered the last bit of your words properly as his mind got occupied by the faint hum of engines drifting from the direction of the manor. His attention completely shifted, and the line of his shoulders altered with the sound, a persistent veil of fatigue settling into his posture. He turned toward you, a shadow of apology in his movement, saying he had to leave, that his father had returned sooner than expected.

You waved it off with a smile that asked for no explanation. “I don’t mind. It was good spending time with you.”

That softened him, even if only briefly. “Thank you for sharing the pomegranate,” he mentioned, then added with a faint smile, “It was really sweet.”

“I want to see you again,” you said, and for a moment his breath caught on the fact that you actually meant it. It was the first time he thought he saw something genuine cross your face, just the plain want of the words themselves.

He nodded slowly, the smallest thread of surprise in his tone. “Sure. I’ll come back.”

And perhaps, one day, he would come to realise that what you offered him today was never only fruit. It was the planting of doubt where certainty had lived, the slow coaxing of temptation into bloom, and the careful crafting of a tie he would not easily cut, no matter how far from this moment he might try to walk.

One seed at a time.

Beomgyu grew somewhat closer to you, one day at a time.

Meeting by the lake had begun to settle into the shape of a routine. You never carried much, always just one thing, as if you lived by some strange rule that balance could only be kept if your hands were light. Some days you brought your kalimba to play as you sat under the tree, Beomgyu lying a few spaces beside you, listening with eyes closed absorbing the fragile, whimsical melody. Other days you carried fruits, breaking them open to share.

There was a strange comfort in this new presence. Compared to Hyeeun, who gave him maternal warmth, offering guidance and protection, you were the first person who met him at the level of a peer and who validated his thoughts. The difference lodged itself in him before he could even notice, a slow intoxication that seeped into his thoughts until he found himself looking forward to these encounters, craving them almost. Eccentric as your words often were, he welcomed them, so long as they meant he could breathe air not tainted by authority.

But today was not one of those days.

Before Beomgyu sat a plate, its centerpiece a steak seared with artistry, marbled with veins of fat glistening beneath the sheen of butter that pooled at its edges. The rich smell wafted toward him but it did not stir hunger in his stomach; instead, it twisted ans he could not bring himself to lift his fork, for appetite had deserted him the moment he took his seat. The perfection of its arrangement only reminded him of the imperfection of the family gathered around it, or rather, the absence of family at all.

Across from him, his father carved into his own portion, the scrape of steel against porcelain sharp enough to rattle through the silence. The sight of flesh tearing without resistance as he lifted the forkful to his mouth reminded Beomgyu of a predator taking the first kill, claiming the prize while he, the one seated opposite, was expected to watch, to wait. The power imbalance was too hard to ignore — the small hierarchy enforced at every meal.

“There will be a meeting you must attend next month with me,” his father said, finally breaking the silence. He didn’t lift his eyes from the plate, though Beomgyu felt them nonetheless. “There will be men whose approval I require. I trust you understand the importance of leaving no… blemishes in conversation. I cannot afford embarrassment, and I will not tolerate any deviation from propriety or protocol.”

Beomgyu shifted slightly in his chair, the leather creaking faintly under his movement. His lips parted, but no words came, only a shallow breath that he disguised with a swallow. His father did not wait for an answer.

He set down the knife for a moment to reach for his glass of wine, swirling it lazily before taking a sip. A subtle smile curved his lips as he added, almost as an afterthought, “After all, it is fortunate that I took you in, isn’t it? You must remember where you came from.” The fork clinked against porcelain as he lifted another piece to his mouth. “Do not mistake your place in this household, nor in this family. I took you in, raised you as if you were mine, though you and I both know better. Gratitude, Beomgyu, is the only language you should ever speak. If you forget this, if you step beyond where I allow, I can have you sent away. Far from this table. Far from this country. Do not think it beyond me.”

The implication made a chill run up his spine as the knife in Beomgyu’s hand stilled, his fingers tightening imperceptibly around the handle before he set it down altogether. His throat burned with words he could not voice, the lump lodged there making swallowing impossible. At the mention of being sent away, one might think, yes, Beomgyu should take this opportunity to grasp onto the freedom he so desperately wished for. One might think of this as a golden escape, but no, his father meant anything but granting him freedom. His father meant metaphorical death.

It struck him with a clarity that hollowed him further, that it was not merely his father’s words that landed harder on his soul, but the knowledge that his dreams of freedom might never be more than fleeting illusions.

Nothing is harder on the soul than the smell of dreams while they are evaporating.

“Where do you go when your house isn’t home?”

Later that afternoon, Beomgyu drifted back toward the lakeside, drawn less by choice than by desperation. When he stepped from the line of trees, he stopped short, struck by the sight of you still there. You were looking far off in the distance. For an instant he wondered if you had stayed because of him, because he couldn't show up on time today.

When he approached you and made his presence known, it occurred to Beomgyu how genuinely startled you look. It was as though all this time, the skin of another self you had been wearing, had been peeled away by mistake. But beomgyu soon threw that thought out of his mind when the other thoughts became too loud and drowned it.

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing slightly at his distant expression. “What did you say?” The question left your lips faintly, touched with genuine confusion.

He bent, reached for a stone, and sent it skipping across the water. It danced briefly across the surface, once, twice, three times, then surrendered, sinking into the depths. He watched the circles widen and collapse — how his own life mirrored that descent, each near ascent followed by collapse, each hope sinking before it could take root.

“Sorry. Forget what I said,” Beomgyu replied, shaking his head. He let another stone fall from his hand, this one left to roll off his palm and clatter against the wood before tipping into the lake. His shoulders sagged with the breath he released. “Just got a lot on my mind.”

Lowering himself onto the dock beside you, he left a careful space in between. His eyes sought the horizon, where the sinking sun stretched across the water in streaks of molten color that looked almost violent in their beauty.

Shouldn’t witnessing something beautiful allow the mind to rest? Then why did his mind still refuse to rest?

He thought of the orphanage, of nights when he hunched over sketch paper until his fingers cramped, tracing dreams into lines and shapes, clinging to the frail conviction that one day he could leave and live by art alone. Back then, the thought of freedom had seemed as reachable as the moon overhead — distant, yet somehow belonging to him if only he could stretch far enough. But the man who had plucked him from those narrow halls had not offered liberation. Instead, he had chained him more tightly, cloaking it beneath the name of father, when in truth it was ownership. At least the orphanage had left him the small rebellion of imagination. Here, he had none. Here, he was a possession.

The pressure inside him built until it pressed against his ribs, until he almost gasped with the ache of it, and he might have spiraled deeper into it if not for the sudden warmth of your hand closing gently around his. He startled, the touch pulling him back into the present, and when he looked down, he found your face tilted toward his, your eyes softer than he had ever seen them. It shook him, that look, because it was entirely new.

“Beomgyu,” your lips wrapped around the shape of his name. The syllables made an odd shiver race down his spine, leaving him strangely unmoored by the tremor it left behind. “You’re crying.”

He blinked, taken aback, and lifted his hand to his face. His fingertips came away damp and embarrassment shot through him sharp enough to make his movements clumsy. Hastily, he tried to wipe away his tears but your hands caught his midway, rising to hold his face in their frame. His breath stalled, surprised by the intimacy. Your thumbs brushed against his skin, sweeping away the tears with an absent gentleness. The far-off cast in your gaze caught him off guard. It was another new look, one he had not seen on you before.

“Do you want to see where I go?” Your voice slipped softer, the water almost stealing it away. Fingers drifted through the strands of his hair, tucking them behind his ear with a touch that left a trembling chill in its wake setting every nerve in his body alight. You watched him intently, that felt close to holding him in place. “Maybe it would help,” you whispered, the ghost of a question wrapped inside it. “Maybe then you’d stop crying, hm?”

A prosaic afternoon of yet another hot summer day: that’s how Beomgyu had expected his day would roll by, as always per the monochromatic routine. But with his hazy state of mind as he watched the red sky shifting to sea of greens, the image of the manor getting smaller in view and the cacophonies of his thoughts vanishing in thin air replaced by the orchestra of birdsong, Beomgyu apprehended the reality and withdrew his earlier plan. His hand was in yours, and the certainty of your pull drew him onward into the heart of the green.

The forest you entered was oak-brown and primitive. The grasses you stepped on were crackly beneath your feet because of the recent dry spell. Beomgyu tilted his head back, his eyes drinking in the towering trees whose branches twisted into knotted arms, rising higher than his neck could crane. They loomed like old fortresses, their bark etched with the passage of ages, and he marveled that such a place had always existed so near and yet had remained hidden from him.

“Are you sure you know where you’re going?” he asked, allowing himself a curl of mischief even as his pulse thrummed hard and fast with the thrill of being led into this unknown. He glanced about at the darkening canopy and added, “This place reeks of serial killers and ghosts.”

You snorted softly at that, not breaking stride. “Don’t worry, princess. If anything comes for us, I’ll protect you.”

When you turned just then, looking back at him with a grin that seemed carved out of sunlight, he felt warmth roll through him with the same ease as summer air after rain. Safe — that was the word that surfaced, startling in its simplicity. How odd that you, a stranger whose name had yet to pass his lips, made him feel safe.

You pressed on, tracing narrow paths that cut between moss-dark trunks and across stony ground where thin streams rattled over scattered rocks. The forest seemed endless, a kingdom unto itself, until suddenly the trees broke open and revealed a ruin crouched within the clearing. It was a collection of stones and rocks tossed around like children’s blocks, and a large rusty bell lying beneath what was once its tower.

It was as if two eyes weren’t nearly enough to hold it all, the ruin both desolate and wondrous, steeped in a history he could only guess at. “How did you know this place existed?” There were so many words to exist yet Beomgyu failed to capture the full breadth of what he felt.

You slipped your hand from his and bounded forward, twirling with your arms outstretched. “Welcome to my safe haven!” you announced, gesturing to the place with your hands. “Still reeks of serial killers and ghosts?”

Beomgyu found himself too caught up in the marvel of it all to respond straight away. An ancient house on its knees on a journey to shambles, a secluded part of an evergreen forest not too far away from the safety of human life, and a girl who leaves sunmarks with every step amidst this. The more he thought about it the more it began to seem like this place was made solely for you.

You beckoned him closer and chose a seat upon a broken pillar, brushing away the dust before settling. He followed your actions and made himself comfortable on another piece of large rubble.

“No one really knows about this place, after all it’s an abandoned building. It’s always been just me,” you said. Streaks of soft sunlight that playfully broke through the cage of leaves fell across your features, catching in your eyes when you tilted your head. The brown in your eyes came to life, as if they were pools of honey with specks of gold.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured at last. His gaze swept over the ruin again before returning to you. “I understand now why you choose to come here.”

You watched him in silence while he lowered his eyes to the ground, his foot tracing absently over the brittle grass at his feet. “Why don’t you paint anymore?”

His head jerked up at that, his lips parting in surprise. A crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “How could you tell?”

Your eyes drifted to his hands, resting idly upon his knees. “They’re clean,” you said simply. “Too clean.”

Beomgyu gave a soft, awkward laugh, scraping the back of his neck with one hand. “I guess I just don’t have much inspiration these days,” he said, making light of it, as if that explanation could cover the ache he carried.

“Does it have anything to do with what you said earlier? About your house not feeling like home?”

His throat worked but no words came. For a moment he only sat there, shoulders curved inward, and you seemed to notice the pause. “Forgive me,” you murmured. “I shouldn’t have asked. I went too far.”

He shook his head at once, almost sharply. “No,” he said, his voice more certain than he felt. “You didn’t. You showed me your sanctuary so it’s only fair you know this much.” He drew a long breath, tried to dress the truth in lightness though it frayed as it left him. “My father… well, he doesn’t like it when I paint. He’s not even my real father. I was adopted when I was young. He only did it because he’s an assemblyman and he needed the sympathy points to win people over.”

You sat in silence for a long while. Then almost with an indecipherable look you recounted, “The bruises… when I first met you.”

Beomgyu’s head lifted at once, his eyes narrowing in surprise. “You remember?”

You hesitated, then further asked, “Were they…?” You left the sentence unfinished, letting the implication hang.

Beomgyu remained still, letting the forest around him absorb his pause. So did you. His gaze flitted to yours repeatedly, trying to decipher the thoughts behind the neutrality in your face, trying to know whether the knowledge of his past had shifted your perception of him in any way, but there was nothing.

“That’s why I go to the lakeside whenever I can,” he admitted, still continuing despite your silence. “It makes me feel less like a prisoner when I’m away from the manor.”

“If he lets you outside the house,” you said, tilting your head as though measuring the thought, “why not run away?”

Beomgyu gave a short, humorless laugh. “It’s not that simple,” he replied, the smile that touched his lips hollow. “When you’ve been caged long enough, even if the door is open you don’t know how to fly. My father—” he stopped, corrected himself with a bitter edge, “the man who calls himself my father clipped my wings a long time ago.”

He turned the conversation back toward you as if trying to shift the heaviness elsewhere. “What about you? Why do you come here? And the lakeside?”

Your eyes went to the sky, tracing the patterns of light caught in the branches above. “My parents are dead,” you said curtly.

“I’m sorry.” Beomgyu’s chest ached at the bluntness of it. He looked at you with softened eyes, though no words of sympathy seemed large enough to comfort the truth you had offered. So the two of you sat without speaking, until you broke it at last.

“You… shouldn’t give up on your dreams because someone is trying their everything to steal it from you,” you started slow, shaping your words carefully as you delivered. “When someone tries this hard to crush them, it only means they know what you’re capable of. He knows that you are capable of breaking through his wall of control, Beomgyu. It means he is afraid of you, of what you might become if you keep going.”

Beomgyu gaped at you, letting your words soak into every crevice of his brain. He was afraid of his father and always has been, and you are saying that his father might be afraid of him?

You shifted, drawing one knee up, your gaze fixed not on him but on the ruin around you. “Don’t let him pin the blame for his own failures onto you. If blame has to be claimed, let him take it. Or—” you paused, almost musing, “learn to take it yourself. There’s a strange luxury in self-reproach. When we decide it’s our fault, no one else has the right to condemn us. It gives us… control, power, even when everything else is stripped away.”

The cadence of your speech, the way your thoughts curved toward shadows, left Beomgyu torn. Part of him felt a tremor run through his chest, stirred by the conviction in your voice, while another part wondered whether you were speaking about him or laying bare fragments of your own story.

In that moment you reminded him of the ocean. There was so much of you he could not see and left to discover, but the little he was given made him feel oddly at home.

The sea… yes, you were just like that. He still had to figure out your name, didn't he?

You rose and crossed the space between you. Standing over him, you let your gaze cast down, yet within the shade they seemed to glow brighter, carrying a light of their own. “If your house doesn’t feel like home,” you said, “come here instead. I’ll be here.”

Beomgyu felt his throat dry, swallowing thickly. If you were the ocean, then you were quite the gentle one, beckoning him to fall into you promising him a safe place.

In the end, will he sink or swim?

It hadn’t gone unnoticed, the way Beomgyu seemed lighter on his feet these days and it began ever since you started bringing him art supplies to the shared sanctuary. There was a certain brightness to him, a spark that had been dulled for so long it startled even Hyeeun when she caught sight of it. She asked what had changed, her brows lifting as she studied him curiously because she had nearly forgotten what joy looked like on his face.

“I look happy?” he had replied, almost in disbelief. When she nodded, telling him that he looked radiant — more alive than he had in months — he had felt a warmth bloom inside him and his thoughts wandered straight to you. It was fuzzy, soft, like the recollection of a dream he didn’t want to wake from.

He wasn’t the only one who had changed. There was something about you that began to take on a new shape as well though he couldn’t quite put words to it. It wasn’t that you had grown gentler, nor that you had lost that edge of distance you carried with you like a shadow, but rather that you seemed more real to him now. After he had spoken about his father, what you offered him wasn’t pity, the kind of hollow sympathy he despised, but respect of some sort. It did not unsettle him, oddly enough; rather, he found it strangely endearing.

One afternoon, when the two of you were inside the stone house or rather, the fractured shell of what once was a house — you broke the soft rustle of silence by remarking, “You’re taking an awfully long time to come up with a name for me.”

The walls cracked in parts, and ivy had claimed half the places, but Beomgyu had suggested cleaning it up. He spoke of giving it a use, of making it livable, even if only for stolen afternoons. Beomgyu could tell you had been reluctant at first, preferring the wilderness outside, leaning against trees or crouching by the lakeside, always just beyond the reach of walls. But he had motivated you in his own insisting way, proving his resolve by rolling up his sleeves and sweeping debris into piles, clearing out corners with surprising skill despite the cobwebs clinging stubbornly to the high corners and the dust rising in clouds that stung the throat.

He had laughed at your surprise as you were clearly not expecting him to know his way around such tasks and explained, with an almost sheepish pride, that he was no stranger to chores. “At the manor, Hyeeun couldn’t always manage everything herself. I learned to take care of myself when I had to.” He remembered how your gaze had lowered at that, something clouding your expression, though you said nothing as you picked up the leaves and helped him finish.

Now, in the dim hush of the stone house, he sat with a small canvas propped on his knees. You sat across from him, absently plucking at your kalimba when you threw the sentence at him. Your words made him smile, lifting his chin in a wordless beckon. You hesitated, pausing mid-note, but then set the instrument aside and crossed the floor to where he was seated.

When you settled near him, he turned the canvas so you could see. The painting was unfinished but clear enough to recognize, revealing strokes of deep blue and pale foam, the suggestion of an endless horizon where sea met sky. “I’ve been thinking,” He kept his eyes on you as he spoke, almost nervously, though he masked it with a half-smile. “Really hard, about what to call you. Everything you’ve done, everything you’ve said since the day we met—it all keeps leading me back to this.”

You stared at the canvas, and for a heartbeat he thought he saw your composure falter. You studied the painting, then looked back at him. “You’re not about to name me ‘sea’ or ‘ocean,’ are you?” you asked him dryly.

It had him laughing heartily, the sound rich and vibrant as it bounced off the walls. You looked at him, confused at what was so funny, and he couldn’t stop the warmth from spilling. But his laugh was so infectious that (to beomgyu’s surprise) it managed to pull a small smile out of you. He tilted his head, still chuckling, and shook it. “No, of course not—why would I settle for something so plain? Sea, ocean… those are far too generic. If I’ve started with ‘ocean’ as my lead, then I’ll definitely come up with something suitable.” though a shadow adorned his face as his laughter died, “but…”

A scuffle outside the ruin caught both of your attention — first a faint rustle, then a hollow thump as if something had toppled. Both of you stilled. Through the cracked frame of the broken window came a chorus of shrill, frantic chirps that made Beomgyu’s pulse jolt. He was already on his feet, canvas slipping from his lap to the ground as he hurried outside.

Just beyond the wall, a small nest had tumbled from the ledge, broken into a tangle of twigs and grass, and amidst the debris a baby sparrow writhed helplessly, tiny chest heaving with fragile breaths. Beomgyu’s heart plunged, crouching low as his hands closed gently around the trembling creature, his thumb brushing its downy head as he checked for breaks or twisted wings. Relief crossed his face as he exhaled, speaking as you caught up behind him. “It’s lucky—this little one isn’t too hurt. Shaken, but it’ll be alright.”

Your gaze darted upward at the parent sparrows circling, their wings beating frantically as they cried down at the scene below. “The nest…”

Beomgyu followed your eyes to the broken mass on the ground, his expression softening into something determined. “I’ll mend it. They can’t be left like this.”

Without another thought, he shifted the bird into your hands, the sudden gesture pulling a startled breath from you. You stiffened, cradling it as though it might shatter at the lightest touch. He caught the hesitation in your posture and offered a small smile that held both reassurance and a hint of mischief.

“Don’t worry. Just stroke its back—like this.” He traced the motion with his own finger in the air. “It’ll calm down. You’ll see.”

Left with no choice, you let the tiny bird rest against your palm, your fingers brushing its soft feathers in hesitant strokes. Meanwhile, Beomgyu knelt down, gathering the scattered pieces of the nest. He worked with surprising care, weaving the twigs back together, layering them with dried grass he pulled from the ground, reshaping the fragile cradle until it resembled a small bowl once more. When he judged it sturdy enough, he tested the edges with his fingers, then climbed carefully over the rubble, finding footholds where stone still held. Balancing himself against the jagged wall, he placed the nest back on the ledge, tucking it into a crevice where it would not fall so easily again.

Looking down at you, he called softly, “Bring it here—gently.”

When you reached him, he leaned low, hands brushing yours as he lifted the sparrow from your palms and set it into the nest. His shoulders loosened with relief as he climbed back down, landing with a grunt, dust clinging to his clothes. Together, the two of you stood back, watching as the parent sparrows swooped down, their cries shifting into softer notes as they settled into the rebuilt nest, wings curving protectively around their child.

“Thank God… this little one will keep living with them, in its home.” The relief in his voice was tempered by a heavy lilt. His gaze clung to the family of sparrows, a softness shadowed by a somber edge, as he had glimpsed what could have been him in their fragile reunion. How pitiful was it to wish yourself in the place of some birds?

“That nest isn’t safe.” You were still staring up. “The forest is full of hawks and crows and they will find them sooner or later. All of this—” you gestured at the ledge, at the desperate little family clinging to one another, “—will end the same way.”

His head turned sharply at your words, confusion flashing across his face, then falling away as he looked back at the sparrows, your point sinking deeper than he wished to admit. So that was it — the cycle. No matter what shelter was built, no matter what fragile peace existed, it could be shattered in an instant by a stronger hand or a sharper claw. His throat tightened as he murmured, almost as if he were trying to convince himself, “Then… at least they’ll be together in the end.”

You exhaled, harsher this time, before your hand gripped his arm that startled him. “No. If you want to be their salvation, then do it properly. Don’t just rebuild what was broken only to leave them exposed again. Move them somewhere safer—where claws and beaks can’t reach. They have a chance at something better, Beomgyu. And you’d deny them that?”

He blinked at you, utterly struck by the sharpness in your tone because he had never seen you like this. His throat worked soundlessly, because he had never once thought about salvation like that, not for himself and certainly not for anyone else. And yet, under the press of your stare, he found himself nodding slowly.

Wordless, he cupped the nest once more and carried it inside, searching until he found a wide crack in the wall where the light streamed in. The gap was narrow but passable, a doorway for wings to slip through, and he eased the nest into place. The sparrows fluttered around him as though testing their new home.

His arms ached faintly from climbing, his palms scraped, but when he stepped back, he felt a strange flicker in his chest. He became their salvation. The birds, at least, had a chance.

You let the silence stretch before breaking it with a question that stopped him cold. “If I gave you a way out of the manor forever, would you take it, Beomgyu?”

His heartbeat stumbled, then raced, and he almost laughed at the absurdity of it. “That’s not possible.” he blurted out, staring at you like you had just spoken madness. Did you think his life was like some birds out in the open?

“Hypothetically,” you pressed, a shadow of defiance in your tone.

His hands curled into fists at his sides before he could stop them because your words sparked something raw in him, causing his composure to crack and his voice to come out louder than he ever meant. “Don’t joke about things like that. I’m not like those sparrows—you don’t understand. My father—” He stopped, shaking his head. “It isn’t that easy. He’s dangerous. I can’t just walk away, no matter how much I want to. I’ll never be free of him.”

The admission echoed too loudly in the hollowed room, and as the last word fell he realized he had all but shouted at you. His face blanched, horror flickering through his features. “I—I didn’t mean to snap. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

But you shook your head before he could finish, eyes falling away from his. “No. I’m sorry too.” A pause stretched, you crossed your arms loosely before eyeing the canvas he dropped on the floor earlier. “You have a good heart, Beomgyu. You’re… kind, even when the world hasn’t given you much reason to be. And you’re braver than you think, though you’re still a little too scared to take the first step. I can feel it. Even when life claws at you, you keep that part of yourself intact. I…” you drew in a breath, voice catching faintly, “I envy that.”

Beomgyu tried so hard to decipher the meaning behind your monologue but he found no roads that lead him to a plausible answer. He didn’t even get the chance to ask you what you were saying because you continued to speak.

“The baby sparrow would’ve died if you hadn’t moved the nest, that its wings were still too frail to hold it aloft, too dependent to fend for itself. But now, because you had chosen differently, because you had carried it to safety, it might live.” Then you turned those same words back on him — asking, no, insisting, “didn’t you too want a chance at life, a chance beyond the shadowed halls of the manor that had held you captive for as long as you can remember?”

Beomgyu began to feel dizzy from all the noises in his head. His thoughts splintered in a dozen directions all at once, scattering like shards of broken glass he couldn’t gather fast enough. He felt fear first, tightening around his ribs at the thought of his father finding out, of his father’s hand coming down not on him this time but on you. Doubt slithered in quickly soon, whispering that this could be another test, that maybe you didn’t mean it, maybe you were just prodding at his wounds to see how he would bleed. Yet beneath those voices was hope. Small and fragile, like the sparrow in his hands only moments ago. He tried to shove it down, but it clung, refusing to be silenced.

How could you help him? Could you really help him? Could you somehow do what he had never managed himself? He thought of nights where he had imagined escape only to remind himself of the price — his father’s reach was long, his cruelty deeper still. What if you underestimated him? What if he caught you both? The idea of you being hurt because of him was unbearable, and the thought left a sour taste in his mouth, made his palms sweat as though he were already clutching at chains.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, drawing in a breath so deep it almost stung. When he opened them again, his gaze landed on the canvas. The sea… you were a gentle tide brushing against the edges of his life with patience. You weren’t trying to drown him. He felt the faintest sense of calm settle in his chest.

“I’ll… think about it,” he said at last, the admission trembling in the air. It was neither promise nor refusal, but the closest he could come to hope without breaking apart.

Ever since that day, Beomgyu’s mind had been a restless field of contradictions.

The meeting was the following week, and it seemed like his father was taking hefty preparations considering he had even gone so far as to select the suit Beomgyu would wear, sending the maids to deliver it to his room as if to remind him that even his appearance was not his own to decide. The garment was crisp, its fabric immaculate, and Beomgyu stared at it for a brief moment before turning away, pushing it aside, not willing to try it on until the event day.

Things took an even anguishing turn for his mind when one night, while Hyeeun stood near the window folding the laundry and he was preparing to go to bed, she spoke words that felt too good to be true.

“An art show will be held soon in the town.”

As if struck by lightning, Beomgyu’s mind came to a static stop. Before he could ask, she added, “They’ll choose an apprentice for the great artist Kim Kwangsun. He will take whoever wins under his wing and train them.”

The name alone made Beomgyu’s pulse roar in his ears. Kwangsun — the great painter whose works he had only ever seen in books, whose brush seemed to capture fragments of eternity itself. To be under his tutelage would not only mean escape, it would mean recognition, a life defined by what Beomgyu’s own hands could create rather than what his father could destroy.

But at that moment, each of her words seemed hard for him to understand, as if he was a child who was beginning to learn new words. When the cloud of bewilderment finally left his mind, he licked his dry lips. “Why… why are you telling me this?” he stammered.

“Beomgyu, I want you to participate. You don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but this… this might be the door you’ve been waiting for. If things are in our favour, you could have the chance to begin again,” her words sharpened with lividness with each one.

This felt way too coincidental, both terrifying and intoxicating. It felt impossible that the thought you had planted — if he would take a way out if offered — had now found an echo in Hyeeun’s words. The seed of hope was raging to go wild, no longer content to rest in silence. It screamed for him to seize it, to run toward the possibility of freedom and let his life finally belong to him.

This could be his salvation.

But rationality took over quicker. His mind recoiled, conjuring the shadow of his father’s hand before it even fell. “Father will kill me if he finds out,” he stated pressingly, shaking his head. “You know what he’s capable of—I can only imagine the things he’d do. And you—” his eyes darted to her, “he’d turn on you too. You’d pay the price right alongside me.”

Hyeeun was adamant. She stepped closer, setting the folded shirt aside, her voice softening yet carrying more strength for it. “All your life, he has chained you. And now, for the first time, you’ve been given a chance to break free. If you can’t trust yourself yet, then at least trust me. I won’t stand by and watch you waste away under his roof, not when I know you have a gift meant for more than these walls.”

Beomgyu decided to not act rashly on his overwhelming emotions and take time to decide. How long could he think, though? How long before hesitation became surrender? You were right when you said he was afraid to take the first leap. Perhaps if he spoke with you again it will help him come to a decision. Yes. He needed to see you — before the chance slipped through his fingers like paint running from a brush.

You were as always, waiting for him. When did you become such a turning point in his life? You occupied a place so difficult to define because he shared a closeness with you of someone he had known forever, and yet the mystery of someone who still remained foreign, your true name withheld from him like a secret. And still, his body betrayed him in its certainty, in the way it recognized you as safe before his mind could put words to the feeling.

He thought of how easily his pulse slowed then picked up when you were near. Around you, he laughed with less restraint, spoke without rehearsing the words in his head, and forgot about time until the sun dipped lower. The soft pull in his chest whenever you glanced at him, and the sudden gentleness that rose in him when he caught the curve of your mouth or the tone in your voice. The body knows, he thought, and his body told him what his mind still struggled to accept: that you had become precious to him.

He thought perhaps you were sent to him by some mercy he did not believe he deserved. How else could he explain your sudden arrival, speaking of escape and daring to imagine a life different from his current one? You wanted him to believe he could leave, you wanted him to believe he could choose, and it shook him more deeply than his own doubts ever had.

A raw desire surged inside him then — an urge to draw you close, to bury himself in the warmth of your presence. Your voice reached him, but the words scattered like dust in the wind. All he could do was move, stepping into the gravity of his longing, arms wrapping around you before he could stop himself.

You stiffened against him, and for a moment he cursed his boldness, but then he felt the hesitation drain from your body, the softening of your breath, and it emboldened him to press his face against the slope of your neck. You smelled faintly sweet, like jasmine, a comfort so achingly tender that his throat closed on itself. He let his arms draw you tighter, and when he felt your arms come around him in return, relief coursed through him so strongly it nearly buckled his knees.

“Can I… stay like this for a while?” He spoke against your skin.

To his surprise, you let out a small laugh. The simple circles you traced along his back soothed his heart. “Are you alright?” you asked softly.

He shook his head against your shoulder, a faint sound escaping him that told you enough. You coaxed him gently, tilting your head so your words reached his ear. “Still caught up in what you’re supposed to decide?”

He lifted his head then, but kept his arms locked around you. His eyes avoided yours, instead tracing the slope of your cheek, the line of your jaw, the delicate dip where your neck met your collarbone. “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he confessed, the words raw. “I’ve never dared to think past the dream of freedom. It always felt like… like some fantasy that would crumble if I reached for it. But when I’m with you—” His voice faltered, yet he forced it out. “When I’m with you, I feel like I could be brave enough to try. I feel as though I could face anything, if you’re beside me.”

Heat surged into his face at the admission; he had practically confessed without meaning to. When at last he gathered the courage to meet your eyes, he found them widened in surprise, though the corners of your lips curved up slyly. Tilting your head, you asked, “And you’re feeling brave now too?”

He felt the corners of his own mouth lift, helpless against the warmth that spread through him. “Yeah,” he breathed. “A lot.”

You did not release him from the snare you had woven; you arched a brow, amusement flickering at the edge of your smile. “What’s that bravery making you want to do?”

He paused, his pulse roaring against his ribs as though urging him forward. At last, with a breath he confessed, “I want to kiss you.”

Beomgyu caught the smallest flicker of hesitation in your gaze, and it was enough to send his stomach sinking. Panic surged through him; he released you at once, stepping back a pace as if distance could undo what he feared he had broken. His hands hovered awkwardly in front of him before he lifted one, palm open in a desperate attempt to show he meant no harm. The words tumbled from him with a breathless urgency, his voice strained with remorse. “I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed myself on you like that. I wasn’t thinking. I don’t want to make you feel trapped.”

But instead of retreating further, you lowered your gaze, lashes veiling your eyes as you reached for him. Your fingers found his, and then both of his hands were gathered into yours. You studied them with a kind of nervous care before threading your fingers through his. The tug you gave was light, almost questioning, but enough to draw him closer again.

You almost whispered the words yet it carried straight to his chest. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

Emboldened by the reassurance in your gesture, Beomgyu felt courage swell anew within him, and he pulled you back toward him, never letting go of your hands, squeezing them once in a silent affirmation. “Are you sure?” he asked, looking for any sign of second thought.

This time, you looked up. A single nod, steady despite the faint tremor in your breath, sealed your answer. “Show me,” you murmured, and though it was barely a whisper, to Beomgyu it rang louder than any command his father had ever thundered.

For a long moment Beomgyu could only stare at you, the pulse in his throat beating far too fast. He was close enough now to see the faint flush spreading along the tips of your ears, to hear the unevenness in your breathing that matched his own, and he thought fleetingly that this was a sight reserved for dreams. His hand slipped back to your waist, and then further, pressing at the small of your back where he let his thumb move in faint circles. Was it to steady you or was it to reassure himself to the reality of your presence — the reason became lost when he came into terms that this was no fleeting dream but something palpably real.

You tilted your face up, your eyes finding his and holding them. He gave you one last chance to pull away, but you only shook your head, and the motion nearly undid him. He bent toward you, heart hammering as his lips brushed yours once, fleeting, just enough to send a jolt coursing through his body. Then, unable to resist the pull any longer, he pressed into you fully. The softness of your lips was everything he had ever imagined and more, and when you kissed him back, it felt as if his chest might break open with the sheer force of it. His hand rose instinctively to your face, fingers cradling your cheek with a tenderness he hadn’t known he was capable of. You gripped the fabric at his waist, clutching at him as though he were something worth holding on to, and the contact sent a warmth through him so fierce he almost staggered.

When he finally drew back, unwilling and breathless, he found you still with your eyes closed. You let out a soft sigh before catching your bottom lip gently between your teeth. Beomgyu felt the heat rush to his face, a blush blooming so vivid he thought for certain you would hear the blood rushing in his ears.

“Was that alright?” Beomgyu asked. His thumb brushed across your cheek in a faint tap, not so much to demand an answer as to feel reassured that you were still right there before him, real and close and not some cruel vision his weary mind had conjured.

You opened your eyes, the lashes lifting slowly and a tender smile curved on your lips. There was a glimmer in your gaze, a shimmer that left him wondering why you looked as though you might cry.

“It was more than alright,” you whispered, the words so quiet that he leaned forward instinctively to catch them, and when you added with a small tilt of your head, “Do you feel rebellious now?” there was a spark of teasing in your tone that made him laugh in earnest.

“Yeah,” he admitted between breaths, still chuckling as he met your gaze again. “All thanks to you.”

The two of you stayed beneath the ivy-curled arch of the ruined walls, the dappled light shifting across your faces as the afternoon stretched long. Beomgyu found himself talking more than he had planned, the words spilling in an unbroken current as he confessed things he thought he’d had to bury in himself forever. He spoke of the art competition Hyeeun had told him of, the way his heart raced at the thought of it, the meeting with his father that loomed like a stormcloud on the horizon, and the sleepless nights he spent tangled in his own dread. You listened without interruption, carried all the emotions he laid out. He had never felt so heard.

When you finally asked if he had already decided on a painting for the competition, he nodded without hesitation. “I have one in mind,” he said, but almost at once his confidence faltered, the doubt sneaking in through the cracks of his composure. “But… I don’t know if it’s enough. What if it’s not worthy of winning?”

Your answer made it sound like truth rather than consolation. You told him that his art had already saved him once, that it had already breathed life into the parts of him his father tried to crush, and that if it could do that, then surely it was strong enough to win him a place in the world beyond these suffocating walls. He clung to those words, let them root themselves in him.

That night, when he lay in his bed, Beomgyu realized that he wasn’t trembling with the usual unrest. His body, for once, allowed him the mercy of stillness, his mind quiet enough to let him drift. He carried into sleep not with the sound of his father’s voice or the sting of his doubts, but your laughter, your encouragement, the press of your lips on his. He dreamt of you through the night, and in those dreams your voice reached him like the consolation of the ocean, vast and endless, a tide that could carry him anywhere.

And after all, once the ocean enters the mind, it never leaves.

Hyeeun brought him the flyer a few days later, slipping it into his hands when she returned from the town with a basket of goods. To know that Hyeeun, too, was willing to risk her position and nudge him toward freedom left him both overwhelmed and quietly trembling inside. Between her faith in him and your constant encouragement, he felt more determined than ever before to win the art competition.

The candidates had to register in person, and there was no clear excuse that would allow him to slip into town without someone trailing him. For now, he had to tuck that possibility deep in his chest and force himself to focus on what came first — the meeting. Hopefully, if he did good, his father will let him off the hook without much questions.

The night before the event, sleep barely touched him. By morning, his body felt hollow, yet he had no choice but to rise when the staff bustled into his room. They dressed him in the crisp suit his father had selected, tugging collars straight and brushing invisible specks from his sleeves until he stood polished into an image that was barely him. All the while, his father kept a hawk eye on every of his motions as if he was waiting for Beomgyu to cause a mishap for him to unleash his wrath.

On the car ride, whispers under his breath that carried more venom than volume, his father recited the rules like scripture — when to bow, when to smile, what to say, what not to even think and threaded threats between them like barbed wire. Beomgyu gave nothing back except a stiff nod here, a blank stare there, swallowing everything into the pit of his stomach where it burned like swallowed fire.

It was sickening how his father’s entire demeanor melted into warmth the moment the doors opened and they stepped into glittering light. The man bowed, shook hands, traded laughter and compliments as though he had never once raised a hand against his son. Beomgyu, standing just behind him, followed suit with the expected grace, bowing to officials, exchanging pleasantries with strangers who wore silk smiles. Their words dripped with honey, but their eyes betrayed them. Some held pity so raw he wanted to shrink under it, others carried evil so bone-shattering that he wanted to run away as soon as possible. He was simply counting down the minutes for this to be over.

After what felt like forever, the return journey began though Beomgyu found himself more alert than ever, because he noticed the peculiarity in his father’s behaviour. The man who had been a shadow of menace for days now looked unusually jolly. Beomgyu suspected that the night’s event had yielded him deals he considered golden. He spoke to no one in particular at first, chuckling under his breath, then a call came through, and the hollow walls of the car filled with his booming laughter. The man spoke of opportunities and names he never bothered to share with his son, before ending the conversation with another peel of laughter that rattled against the windows.

Beomgyu sat still, hands folded in his lap, stiffening only when his father’s hand clapped down on his shoulder with a jarring weight. The praise that followed was foreign; words of approval that Beomgyu could hardly believe were directed at him. He had behaved well, his father said, and for that he was worthy of a pat and a chuckle. To anyone else, it would seem like a tender moment between father and son, but Beomgyu’s bones knew better.

Beomgyu inclined his head slightly, not daring to break the fragile surface of good humor. The man, already turning away, launched into another fit of chatter with the driver, spinning half-jokes and boasts about new alliances. Beomgyu, calculating beneath his calm exterior, nodded along as though in admiration before offering his own words at the perfect moment—

“Congratulations, father. It sounds as though you’ve secured what you’ve been working toward.” The words tasted like ash on his tongue. He paused, let his tone soften just enough to sound harmless, before adding, “I’ll need to go into town tomorrow—”

Perhaps on another night, suspicion would have lined his father’s gaze, would have chained Beomgyu’s request to interrogation and threats. But tonight, drunk on his own success, the man barely spared him more than a careless wave of the hand. “Go, go,” he said, still chuckling. “Do what you want, just don’t cause trouble.”

That was Beomgyu's green light and he sat back comfortably against the car seat, not participating in the conversation further. The rest of the car ride, beomgyu had a smile.

The gallery was crowded. Students with sketchbooks tucked beneath their arms, older painters with hands still stained in pigments, children darting between parents who urged them to stand still, and men and women dressed in their best coats. Beomgyu looked around taking in the smiling and vibrant faces of talent surrounding him. So many artists came to sign up for the competition and he thought to himself if it was even possible to compete with them. They carried with them families who clapped shoulders and whispered encouragement but most importantly they looked happy. It was a picture of belonging, and for a moment, Beomgyu wondered what he was doing among them.

He shook himself as though forcing away a cloud. No, no — he could not let his thoughts collapse inward now. He was not entirely alone; Hyeeun had been with him since day one and you had told him more than once that you believed in him. That faith mattered. Just as he was about to scan the crowd for the registration desk, a voice broke through the noise.

“Looking a bit lost there. Are you here to sign up?”

Beomgyu turned to find a young man approaching. He had a charming, friendly smile etched on his lips that enunciated the sparkle of his big eyes. The stranger looked about his age, perhaps even younger, and there was something almost familiar in the openness of his expression.

“I am,” Beomgyu answered, inclining his head politely. “I was just trying to find where to go.”

“Well, you’re in luck then,” the young man said, holding out a hand as though the two had already met. “Kang Taehyun. Come with me, I’ll show you.”

Beomgyu accepted the handshake, the other’s grip firm but not overbearing, and allowed himself to be led through the crowd until Taehyun stopped before a counter stacked with papers, inkpads, and a long line of hopefuls. Beomgyu joined the queue and let his gaze wander again — he found it easier to observe than to think.

Across the room, not far from a display easel propped up with last year’s winning piece, Taehyun stood directing another group of artists toward the line. As though sensing Beomgyu’s eyes, he glanced up, and their gazes met. Beomgyu was probably losing his social skills because how else could he explain the unrecognizable chill running through him upon their eye contact?

Taehyun gave him a small nod and a smile, Beomgyu, uncertain of how to mirror such natural ease, offered a stiff nod in return, the corners of his mouth tugging upward in an awkward curve. Then Taehyun turned away again, already guiding another nervous painter toward the counter.

Registering his name felt like signing the deal for his new life, Beomgyu’s heart catapulting in his chest as he looked at the approved stamp beside his name. He pressed the form back toward the registrar and stepped aside, chest rising and falling as if he had run. This was his only chance and whatever it took, he could not afford to fail.

From his peripheral vision, he noticed the same young man approaching him again. That bright smile was back on his face when he stopped in front of Beomgyu, hands loosely tucked into his pockets. “All done?” he asked.

“Yes,” Beomgyu replied, dipping his head slightly. “Thank you, for earlier.”

“You look nervous,” Taehyun remarked lightly, tilting his head as he studied him.

Beomgyu’s lips quirked upward faintly. “I think that’s the common feeling packed into this place.” His words were dry, a little self-deprecating, but not entirely untrue. He could almost hear the dozens of hearts pounding around him, his own included.

That earned him a soft laugh, and Taehyun nodded as though Beomgyu had said something particularly clever. “Fair point. Still, it helps to walk around a bit, take your mind off it. Want to look around?”

Beomgyu blinked at him, uncertain. “Ah… but aren’t you a volunteer? Shouldn’t you be working?”

“My shift just ended,” Taehyun answered without missing a beat, lifting one shoulder in a shrug that was almost too casual. Then his eyes sharpened, bright with expectation as he leaned forward slightly. “Mister…?”

Caught off guard, Beomgyu realized with a start how rarely he introduced himself first. “Choi Beomgyu,” he said after a pause, the syllables of his own name tasting strange on his tongue in such a public space.

“Beomgyu,” Taehyun repeated, nodding as if sealing it into memory before gesturing for him to follow. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”

The gallery was like a maze, hall after hall of color and silence broken only by the shuffle of shoes and the faint murmur of voices that rose and died away again. Beomgyu followed Taehyun through it, exchanging half-thoughts and fragmented words about the paintings and about nothing in particular. The conversations were not meant to be memorable; they existed only to fill the space between them, like scaffolding that kept Beomgyu from collapsing inward under the awkward pressure of being guided by someone he had just met. And yet Taehyun’s presence was gracious without being overbearing which kept Beomgyu from wishing himself elsewhere.

It was in front of a large canvas, colors sun-scorched and sea-drowned, that Beomgyu stopped. A boy in mid-fall, arms outstretched, feathers scattering around him like dying sparks, the sea below dark and wide, the sky above merciless.

“Ah, the infamous Icarus,” Taehyun remarked. He felt Taehyun move closer. “I don’t know much about him, only that people say his tale still echoes as tragedy, even now.”

Eyes never once wavering from the scene, Beomgyu’s tone dipped an octave lower when he spoke. “His father, Daedalus, built wings out of feathers and wax so that they could escape the island of Crete. He warned his son not to fly too high, because the sun would melt the wax, and not too low, because the sea would soak the feathers. But Icarus…” He hesitated, then exhaled. “He was overcome by the wonder of flight. He soared upward, forgetting everything but the sky, and the heat tore his wings apart. He fell into the sea and drowned.”

Judging from Taehyun’s expression, it seemed like he was letting the explanation soak into his mind as though trying to see the boy through both lenses at once. Eventually, he said, “So in the end he died because he went against his father’s words. All that brilliance, all that promise, undone because he couldn’t obey. That’s what makes it tragic, isn’t it? Pointless.”

For a long moment Beomgyu said nothing, his jaw tight as he studied the painted boy’s broken flight. Then, he shook his head. “I don’t see it that way.” His gaze was distant, the words coming from him felt like they belonged to someone else. “Icarus fell, yes. But I like to believe he wasn’t afraid. Even when the sea claimed him, what mattered wasn’t the fall. It was that, for one moment, he flew.”

Taehyun turned toward him. “You think there’s fulfillment in that? To burn out like that, for just a taste of freedom?”

Beomgyu’s eyes softened and a faint, almost sorrowful smile tugged at his lips. After a pause, he gave the smallest nod. “Yes. Freedom asks for a price. He paid it. But in return—he knew what it was to soar.”

When Beomgyu returned home that evening, the house felt cavernous in its silence. He didn’t search for his father as such disappearances were commonplace. Beomgyu instead slipped past the polished halls and made his way toward the staff quarters. In the kitchen, he found exactly who he sought.

“Hyeeun,” he called gently, stepping inside. The older woman startled, pressing a hand to her chest before fixing him with a mock glare.

“Good heavens, child, do you mean to take years off my life? You can’t go sneaking up on me like that. I’m old, remember?” she scolded, though the affection in her voice softened every word.

Beomgyu grinned, crossing the space to wrap her in a brief hug before dropping into the chair beside her. “You’ve been saying you’re old for as long as I’ve known you, and yet you still outwork everyone here. What are you looking at?”

On the table lay a worn photo album, its edges frayed, the pages softened by touch and time. Hyeeun closed a hand over it, almost protectively. “Just these. I thought I’d keep them company for a while.”

Together they turned the pages, revisiting pieces of his past. The photos were a mix: some from the orphanage, others taken after adoption, stitched together into a patchwork of memory. The warmth of her presence and the scent of cooking still clinging to her apron wrapped around him as they reminisced, voices occasionally dissolving into laughter at some captured expression of his childhood self.

One photo in particular drew his eye. He tapped the corner with a finger, brow furrowing. “Ah, this one… this was when the nannies took us on that park trip. I remember chasing after a kite until my shoes were ruined.”

The image showed him with a handful of children, their faces flushed with play. Yet, behind them, almost out of frame, a small family stood frozen in time: a father, a mother, and a girl about his age, their smiles angled toward another camera. The longer he stared, the more the detail nagged at him, a tug at the edges of his memory that refused to resolve into clarity. He tried to summon the day, to piece together fragments, but all that surfaced was an unsettled pull in his chest that he was forgetting something vital from this particular day.

Before he could dwell longer, Hyeeun turned the page with a little hum, drawing his attention to newer photographs, and the moment slipped away like water through fingers. Beomgyu exhaled and let it go.

“Actually,” he said after a beat, glancing at her with a small smile, “I came to tell you something. I registered for the competition today.”

Her eyes widened, and then her whole face lit up, relief and pride tumbling into her expression at once. “Did you now? Oh, Beomgyu, that’s wonderful! You’ll win, I know it.”

He chuckled softly, looking down at her hands and placed his own over hers. “I don’t want to set my hopes too high, but I swore to myself I’d give everything I have this time. Not just for me, but for you too. If I win… I’ll take you with me like I said. We’ll leave this place behind.”

She squeezed his hand gently. “You always speak as though you owe me something, when all I ever wanted was to see you find your happiness.”

Happiness… the word triggered a memory of something, or rather, of someone. Beomgyu hesitated, a sheepish look crossing his face before he spoke again. “There’s… someone I’d like you to meet, one day.”

Hyeeun’s brows rose, her expression shifting from surprise to dawning curiosity. “Someone? Beomgyu, are you telling me you’ve met a person worth introducing to an old woman like me?”

He nodded, lips quirking into a shy smile. Her disbelieving laugh rang out, bright and affectionate, as she shook her head. “You’ve kept this from me? Well, you’d better not think you’re escaping without details. Who is this person?”

“Not yet,” he said gently, sincerity ran beneath his words. “But when the time is right, I promise I’ll bring her to meet you.”

He couldn’t fall asleep that night; he didn’t know whether it was from the rush of adrenaline that ignited in his veins or the stress caused by the thought that he had to work — and quickly — on a new piece which was presentable and qualified enough for the art show. Beomgyu had to be cautious with his art tools. Things would get ugly if he gets caught by his father again. He had to do it all in one month.

He got down to work as soon as he knew he was safe to do so. Days and nights were spent behind the piece he worked on. He was diligent and careful — alert not to make any mistakes. There were moments when Hyeeun had to drag him away from the canvas to eat, or to send him for a bath. On days when the manor’s atmosphere grew too watchful, too unsafe for him to risk even a brushstroke, he carried his tools in secret and escaped to the ruins, where your presence became his shelter.

One afternoon, you arrived and settled beside him to watch. Beomgyu did not need to look up to feel your gaze fixed on the canvas, though when he finally did, he caught the expression on your face and smiled faintly. Your eyes were wide, awestruck.

“It’s beautiful already,” you said. The colors caught in the fading light, and your breath seemed to hitch as you took in how far the piece had come. You reached for his hands. Beomgyu let you take them, watching as your fingers traced across his palms, turning them this way and that, as though searching for some hidden proof of pain.

He gave a small laugh, soft and almost boyish in the dim afternoon light. “Are you checking for wounds?”

Your thumb brushed against a callus, but your gaze had already returned to the canvas. Beomgyu tilted his head and cupped your face in one paint-stained hand.

“I’m being careful,” he assured. “That’s why he hasn’t noticed. That’s why I haven’t had to take any blows lately. I know what’s at stake.”

You turned into his touch, eyes shadowed with worry he had seen before, though never quite so open. “Knowing what your father is capable of,” you said, punctuating the half finished sentence with a sigh, you added, “I can’t help but worry for you.” Your hand tightened faintly over his. “But I also know what you’re capable of, Beomgyu. And when I think of that, I’m certain his hold over you won’t last forever. It’s only a matter of time before one day, everything he’s built will turn to ashes."

Beomgyu let out a quiet laugh. “It’s endearing,” he murmured, “how much you trust me.”

Your eyes curved faintly, though not with unguarded joy; there was a rueful tilt to your lips. “You’ve shown me many reasons to trust you,” you said softly. “I told you before, didn’t I? That you are a kind person.”

He stilled for a moment, the brush pausing mid‑air, before he set it down. He leaned closer, brushing a kiss against your linked hands. “I trust you too, just so you know.”

That was when you went quiet for a moment, eyes flicking over his face as though searching for something, before you asked him why. “Why do you trust me? You don’t even know my name, never once asked me where I came from, who my family was or what I could’ve wanted out of this strange companionship that bound the two of us together. Aren’t you afraid?” you pressed, “that I might be here with some other purpose? What if I hurt you?”

Beomgyu sat back, listening, and the canvas waited but he didn’t care, because the question deserved more than an absentminded answer. His gaze dropped briefly to his hands in yours, then lifted to your eyes. He smiled with an open sincerity.

“Maybe it is strange,” he admitted, “trusting someone when I don’t even know the simplest things about them. But you’ve been nothing but a joy in my life since you appeared. If you wanted to hurt me, I think you would’ve done it long ago. You wouldn’t be here, sitting next to me, watching me chase after something I’d given up on a long time ago. You wouldn’t be the one reminding me that my dreams are worth the risk. Unless…” He let out a small laugh, shaking his head. “Unless it’s part of your trick, in which case—I’ll say this much. Instead of harm, you’ve made me work harder, and believe that maybe I have a place beyond these walls. If that’s your scheme, then it’s the kindest one I’ve ever seen.”

The ruins were still, save for the faint rustle of wind passing through broken arches. He leaned in a little closer, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret with you. “You told me once you envy me for holding onto compassion even when life didn’t give me reasons to. But… I think you’re just as compassionate, maybe more. Otherwise, why do you look at me like you’re about to cry every time?”

Beomgyu’s heart beat wildly as he said those words, watching your face and how for a long while words seemed to desert you. He wondered if your heart was beating fast too? But you sat there hollow-mouthed, perhaps felt caught between wanting to confess everything and refusing to let a single syllable slip. Beomgyu did not appear unsettled by your silence.

Instead, he turned his gaze toward the broken arches and the scattered stones of the ruin, the evening light slanting across his features as though it wished to frame him in gold. With a small, reflective smile, he said, “Do you know what I’ve realized? You’ve given me more reasons to smile in these past weeks than I’ve had in years. You’ve given me reasons to step out of that house and to look forward to what comes when the sun rises. A cruel heart could never grant that.”

“Do you really think I could be… kind?” you quietly asked.

Beomgyu’s chuckle slipped out, light as if he had caught a breeze between his teeth. He leaned back a little, fingers brushing against the edge of his canvas. “I think I’ve been watching you try to change,” he said warmly but for reasons unknown to him, his words made your eyes dart toward him in alarm. He let that slide. “You don’t need to, you know. You’ve already shown me the heart you carry, but you shift and grow too, and that’s what makes you… harder to pin down. Which is why honestly,” he added with a wry smile, “I’ve hesitated to give you a name.”

Even after having a word for it, there were nights he thought if his definition of you was all that you were. That would be too cruel and unjust for you. He didn’t want to limit you.

Your brows furrowed, curiosity outweighing the panic that had risen in you moments before. “Define me, you mean?”

“Giving you a name,” he corrected gently, tilting his head as he met your eyes again. “A definition fixes a person into one place, doesn’t it? It leaves no room for change. You—” he broke off briefly, lips tugging into a faint smile, “—you evolve. If you’d still like to know what’s been crossing my mind for you, though, I’d be more than glad to tell you.”

A tremor left you in the form of a shuddering breath, but you replaced it with brightness, shaping it into a smile so true and dazzling that it made his chest ache. “I’d still love to know,” you said, eyes catching the light until they shone with a gloss that made you look as though you stood on the edge of tears. There it was again, looking at him as if you’re about to break.

Something in his own expression softened at that. You turned your face away then, toward the half-finished painting between you. “Hyeeun will love this,” you murmured.

“I hope she does,” he answered. Then, after a small pause, he added with an earnestness that he prayed to reach your heart, “I want you to meet her one day. She’s very dear to me.”

You let your eyes rest on him again, watching the openness with which he spoke of her, the fondness etched into his face as though the thought of her could smooth away every scar he had known. “I can tell she is,” you said, “She brought you up, didn’t she? I can see the proof in you. You’ve grown into a lovely person, Beomgyu.”

Time slipped away faster than he could hold it, until suddenly there was only a week left before the submission.

The day had dawned a dreary overcast. Beomgyu’s gaze wandered for a moment to the window, droplets threading their way downward, before returning to the canvas in front of him. His chest swelled with a quiet pride.

A bouquet of vibrant yellow roses framed by a pair of gentle hands. He had managed to capture the image exactly as it had lived in his memory, as if time had folded to give him back that fleeting sight. Looking at it now, he felt vindicated. The scene was striking, full of warmth, just as he had always believed it would be.

A knock came against the door, breaking his reverie. His heart leapt, the corners of his lips tugging upward the moment he saw Hyeeun standing there. He beckoned her in, his eagerness almost spilling out.

“So you’ve finally decided to show me what you’ve been working on,” she said with a playful tilt of her brow.

“I can promise you it’s worth the wait,” he answered with a laugh.

Hyeeun raised her brows in anticipation when Beomgyu jogged up behind her and gently covered her eyes with his hands, guiding her toward the canvas. A laugh tumbled out of her as she allowed him to lead. When he pulled his hands away, Beomgyu stepped back, searching her face as the veil of surprise lifted. For a heartbeat, she looked baffled, and then it began to dawn on her. Her eyes flicked from the painting to her own hands, and there, gleaming on her ring finger, was the silver band reflected on the painted one.

“Are those…?” Her voice cracked, words catching before they could form.

Beomgyu only nodded, the satisfaction in his chest deepening. Her reaction alone was enough to tell him that he had succeeded. Crossing his arms, he looked at the canvas not as an artist, but as a son. “I’ve named it A Mother’s Love.”

Hyeeun pressed her lips together, her eyes glistening despite the small scoff she gave as she wiped at them. “You really know how to move me, don’t you?”

“You once told me I don’t owe you anything,” he paused, looking down. “But I don’t think that’s true. I owe you everything, and I’ll spend the rest of my life finding ways to repay all the years you spent caring for me, standing by me, and loving me as only you could… mother.”

Her arms went around him in a tearful embrace, and he closed his eyes against her shoulder. For all his words, for all the paint he had poured into canvas after canvas, nothing could quite hold the depth of what she had been to him. So he prayed, silently, fervently, that he might one day be worthy of it all.

And just when you think you’re finally at the peak of having the sun in your grasp, you get reminded why Icarus fell for flying so close to it.

The night had been like any other but Beomgyu had paused as he passed the door of his father’s office. He should have walked on. His feet should have carried him back to his room, but instead they rooted to the floor as though the very grain of the wood was determined to betray him into eavesdropping.

“The tide is turning in our favor,” he father said, pacing as he spoke, the scrape of his shoes brushing against the carpet. “The numbers are already showing it. They’ll crown me before the final vote is even cast, you’ll see. But all of it means nothing if ghosts are allowed to claw their way out of their graves.”

Beomgyu’s blood ran cold. Across the room, he heard the secretary’s voice. “It’s been more than ten years, sir. Ten years, and not a whisper has surfaced that can truly harm you. The records are buried deep, the editors are in our pocket, and those who might’ve spoken have either been bought or silenced.”

His father let out a short laugh. “And that is why you’ll make sure they still find nothing to tug at. The family’s death was written off as an unfortunate accident, nothing more. A fire, a tragedy, and then the ashes swept clean. Keep it that way. I don’t care how many papers you have to burn or how many mouths you need to shut. My victory depends on silence.”

The secretary’s chair creaked as he leaned back, the faint metallic tap of his pen following. “It will be done. We’ve kept the story buried this long; another season won’t change that. But—people are digging harder now, rival camps are hungrier. If even one old article resurfaces about the murder—”

“Then destroy it,” his father cut in, dismissive. “Destroy it before the ink has time to dry in their minds. We’ve already killed them once; don’t let their memory rise to kill me.”

It was the way his father said it, offhand as if it were no heavier than instructing the staff to clear the dining table, that made Beomgyu’s breath falter. The word murder hung there, stripped of any disguise, spoken so plainly it scalded him. A murder case, reduced to a nuisance of paperwork and bribes. His father’s voice did not even lower when he referred to the life that had been taken — it was the unshaken belief that power was strong enough to wash blood clean, that made Beomgyu’s insides twist.

He didn’t know whose lives had been extinguished, only that the secretary’s agreement confirmed it had been done and that it was not the first time. All his life, he had exaggerated the fact that his father was capable of ‘killing’ only by taking away someone’s dreams but now Beomgyu truly understood — his father was capable of more than cruelty, more than fists and cutting words; he was capable of ending a person entirely. The realization rooted in Beomgyu’s chest like ice. He staggered back from the door as though struck, each step of retreat a battle to keep his breathing quiet, his hands trembling against the banister as he forced himself back to his room.

Once inside, his strength gave out, fumbling the latch shut. He collapsed to the floorboards, chest convulsing with shallow gasps that refused to fill his lungs. The room blurred and spun, palms pressed against his temples as though he could keep the words from seeping deeper into him. His father was capable of killing. He had done it before, and he had hidden it so well that the world lauded him still.

What seized him more violently was not the thought of his own end should the truth of his defiance ever reach his father — it was Hyeeun.

If his father discovered the plan, if his father so much as suspected her role, what would stop him from erasing her just as he had erased those innocent lives? Hyeeun — sweet Hyeeun, who had given up her years to raise him with tenderness his father never knew — what would he do if she was dragged into the fire? Beomgyu’s nails dug into the floor as his breathing quickened, panic thrashing inside him without direction.

He did not, for one moment, fear what could happen to himself; but the thought of harm falling upon her left him shaking, gasping on the floor. If his father dared to touch Hyeeun, Beomgyu did not know what he might do, only that the boy he was tonight would cease to exist.

He was falling. He was falling and all he wanted was the embrace of the ocean to engulf him so that the terror coursing through his chest would dissolve into something vaster than himself.

Yet he had not moved all day; the bed had kept him prisoner by dread so thick he could not even bring himself to step outside. Though he thought of the lakeside, though he thought of the ruins, though he thought of you, he could not will his limbs to rise. He remained drowning in his own depression, sick with the wish that you would come find him instead, to appear at his door as if summoned by the desperation he could no longer mask, to drown him instead in the breadth of your presence, to hold him and promise that the truth he learned was nothing more than his hallucination.

He could not bear it any longer. Past midnight, when the stars were scattered pale across the sky, he fled toward the ruins. He did not know if you would be there. He did not even expect it, for you had only ever met him in the span between afternoon and evening, your paths parting with the descent of the sun. And yet, he went, driven by the need to breathe somewhere far from walls built by a murderer.

The ruins at night were a husk of themselves. Steeped in shadow, the stones veined with silver where the moon spilled across them making the place look unreal in its beauty. Reality was already growing porous for Beomgyu from the burden of his emotions.

In truth, he did not expect anyone. He had prepared himself for emptiness, perhaps even needed it. So when he caught sight of you there seated in that desolate cradle of stone — for a brief second he thought he had conjured you out of longing, a hallucination born of fear.

His knees struck the earth hard. Raw and jagged sobs broke from him shaking him until he bent forward with his face in his hands, incapable of speech, incapable of anything but breaking apart. He dimly registered your startled voice, the sound of you rushing to him, your hands clumsy on his shoulders and his face, trying to discover where he was hurt, what had struck him down.

“Beomgyu—Beomgyu, what happened? Are you hurt? Tell me where—” Your words stumbled over each other in alarm, your palms framing his jaw.

But no words would come. The air tore in and out of his lungs but brought no calm, only more shudders. His hands caught at you desperately, clutching your arms, your shoulder, wherever he could find purchase to feel you weren’t an image he conjured up.

“Breathe,” you whispered, pulling his face against your shoulder. “Just breathe, it’s alright. You’re here, I’ve got you. You’re safe, Beomgyu.” The cadence of your words was uneven, rushed at times, but that only made them feel more alive.

It took long minutes before anything coherent slipped through his teeth. “I—I can’t—” He broke off, pressing his face harder into your shoulder because the words themselves burned. “The house—it’s—” His chest hitched again, another sob scraping his throat raw. “I don’t know what to do. Hyeeun—I’m so scared.”

You stroked the back of his neck, shushing him in soft fragments but Beomgyu could hear your heart beating in confusion. “Then don’t think about the house right now. You’re here. Just stay here with me. Whatever it is, you don’t have to carry it alone.”

He shook his head, unable to form more. He couldn't place it into words — couldn’t say my father is capable of killing, couldn’t bear to let it take shape.

You let him be for a little while longer, waiting until the worst of his trembling had passed before gently suggesting that the night air would make him catch a cold if he stayed out any longer. He didn’t resist when you touched his sleeve and urged him to his feet, though his movements were sluggish. His gaze trailed after you when you stooped to collect the lamp you had with you, its pale flame quivering with each step you took toward the ruined structure.

The ruin looked much as you both had left it the last time — almost domestic in its stillness, thanks to his earlier persistence in sweeping and arranging. The corners were free of the usual drifts of leaves, and the mat you had unrolled together rested against the far wall. You brought him there with a small guiding press, and he sank down onto it. When you passed him your water pouch, he gratefully accepted it. The liquid wet his lips, ran down the corner of his mouth, and only then did he realize how parched he was.

You stayed low before him, crouched so that your eyes caught his without obstruction. The flame from the lamp painted copper onto the brown of your gaze, lending it an otherworldly sheen that held him captive despite himself. He thought, wildly, that if he had enough strength left he would keep staring until the night collapsed into morning, that maybe your eyes could hold him upright where his own body could not. His heart, which only moments ago had raced from panic, now beat with a different restlessness.

“What were you doing here?” he asked at last, his voice roughened not only by thirst. He glanced at the darkness beyond the broken threshold, then back at you. “At this hour, I mean. It’s far too late for you to be wandering.”

Beomgyu once again caught the familiar flicker of hesitation in your gaze as you thought for an answer. He was no fool, he knew you had secrets, but you weren’t an enemy. That much, he was sure of, and if one asked him why then they’d be disappointed knowing he too had no idea why. He just knew.

“I couldn't sleep.” You brushed a stray lock of hair back as you spoke, your gaze drifting briefly toward the lamp. “When my house doesn’t feel like a home, I come here, remember?”

A rueful smile touched his mouth, though it faltered almost as soon as it appeared. “Then I should apologize for invading your space. I didn’t mean to… I didn’t even know if you’d be here. It’s only that—” he swallowed, thumb tightening on the water pouch before setting it aside, “I hoped for you to be here. You’ve become… I don’t even know the word. Important, I suppose. Too important, perhaps. It’s strange—funny, even.”

The wind slipped in through the gaps in the stone, stirring a faint draft that made the flame inside the lamp gutter dangerously, shadows reeling across the walls. The two of you instinctively glanced toward it, watching as it bent and righted itself. The pause in conversation stretched there, tension threading the air in the wake of his words.

“Are you still sure you want to do this?”

“Do what?”

You looked away, toward the lamp that threatened to die and then flared again, and you shook your head like you were denying both him and yourself. A faint, tired curve of your lips betraying nothing of the turmoil beneath. “You shouldn’t trust me this much.” The words were a weak last attempt at a warning.

Beomgyu chuckled dryly. “You’ve said that before,” he murmured, rubbing at his face with both hands as if he could wake himself from this strange, aching dream. “And I told you—I don’t care. If you were going to hurt me, you would’ve done it already.” His hands dropped back to his lap, his eyes finding yours in the half-light. Softer, almost broken, he added, “You still had the chance to do it tonight… but instead you held me.”

His head tilted, hair falling across his brow as he studied you. “Why do you keep doing it?”

The lamp flickered violently, its glow throwing wild shapes across the walls and cutting harsh lines over his face. He leaned back against the stone, letting his legs stretch before him. The night wind had worked his hair into a tangle, and without thinking, you shifted closer, reaching out to smooth them away. His gaze never broke from yours, even as your fingers threaded lightly through his hair he kept waiting for your answer.

When your silence stretched, he exhaled a breath that trembled at its edges. “It’s too late to take it back now,” he said softly. “I’d rather trust you and be wrong than keep drowning alone.”

It was true. Never once had he felt danger in your presence. Unease, yes, at the beginning, when you had first unsettled him with your strange quietude but never once did he feel the need to truly run away from you. Even if he was destined to burn like Icarus, chasing the warmth of a freedom too close to touch, and even if you were the ocean that would swallow him whole, he could not bring himself to care. Let the story be a tragedy rewritten. He still wanted you.

You said his name — just his name — and the sound of it loosened a sigh from him. His hand rose almost instinctively, closing around yours where it still rested in his hair. That simple gesture drew your eyes to him at last, made you meet him fully beneath the thinning light. The wind surged through the broken windows, and the flame in the lamp gave its last quiver before snuffing out, leaving the two of you in the silvery hush of moonlight.

He saw the way your lips parted with the faint tremor of restraint there, and how your gaze dipped, traced the line of his mouth before returning to his eyes. Beomgyu didn’t move at all, offering the decision into your hands.

You were torn, that much he could see, and guilt pricked him for laying this heaviness on your shoulders. He softened instinctively, ruffling your hair with his palm before patting the top of your head with a small chuckle which was no less warm.

“Thank you,” he said. “For always catching me when I fall, even when you don’t realize it.” He started to push himself upright, brushing dust from his palms. “I’m okay now. I can go back.”

But your hand caught his collar before he could straighten fully, the tug sharp enough to unbalance him, dragging him back down into a sitting position where your mouth caught his. Beomgyu had no time to even melt into the kiss because you were pulling away already. He stared at you when did, still so close that your breaths touched. His pulse pounded so harshly in his ears it drowned out the rustle of the trees outside. Your grip on his collar only tightened, holding him close enough that he could see the way your chest heaved with uneven breaths.

“Please,” you begged, “ask me what you are to me.”

His chest ached at the rawness of it, a smile breaking loose even as he lifted his hand to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your skin tenderly. “What am I to you?” he whispered.

You cursed under your breath, eyes squeezing shut as though forcing the truth out cost more than you wanted to give, before you opened them again and pinned him in place.

“I want to save you, Choi Beomgyu.”

“I’m all yours.”

Mouth claiming mouth, returning to each other with a rush and much less hesitation this time. His hand slid up to the back of your head, holding you against him. The taste of you filled him, overwhelming and it wasn't enough, never enough, so he angled his mouth to press harder against yours — lips parting, pulling you closer until your knees knocked his thighs. Beomgyu’s back thumped lightly against the wall as you pressed forward, the jolt sending a shiver up his spine. He didn’t even care about the rough stone digging into his shoulders; all he cared about was the feel of you crawling into his lap, your thighs bracketing his hips, your body pressing down until he could hardly breathe for the rush of sensation.

A groan broke from him when you settled more fully against him, the friction near unbearable through the layers of cloth still separating you. Your dress had ridden up over your thighs, exposing warm skin beneath his palms as his hands slid along them, and the shiver that trembled through you only pushed him further into the haze of need. The movement forced another roll of your hips against his that made his vision blur for a moment. He broke from your mouth only to gasp for air, forehead falling against your shoulder, his breath hot where it hit your skin.

“Is this—” he rasped, voice raw with need, “—is this really okay?” His fingers flexed against your waist, betraying his fear of pushing you too far, of losing what he already had.

“Yes,” you breathed against his ear, the word catching on your throat, more exhale than voice. “If you want this too.”

He tilted his head back enough to catch your mouth again, kissing you like that was the only answer possible. “God, I do,” he muttered against your lips, barely coherent as he drew you down harder against him, his hips shifting upward to meet the roll of yours. The friction burned, sharp and maddening, and he couldn’t hold back the whimper that escaped when you rolled down again, slow enough to make his entire body quake.

“You’re trembling,” you whispered against his cheek, your hands threading through his hair, tugging lightly.

“I—” he choked out a breath as his hands slid from your hips up along your back, “—I don’t think I can stop even if I tried.”

“You don’t have to,” you said simply, continuing your blissful torture on him, dragging across the strain between you both. Beomgyu’s jaw dropped around another groan, his eyes squeezing shut at the flood of sensation. His mind shrank to nothing but the heat of your body rocking against his, the sound of your breath mixing with his own, and the wet press of your mouths colliding again and again, each kiss hungrier than the last.

He had thought he’d drown in loneliness before, but this was drowning too — in fire and salt and sweetness, a burn he would gladly take if it meant more of you, closer still, until there was no space left between. He didn’t care if it consumed him entirely; he wanted more, and more, and more.

You pressed another kiss to his lips, and he was hungrier than ever. His voice broke into a low moan against your mouth, his body jolting when the hard line of his arousal slid against your center through the thin barrier of fabric. His face burned crimson as he wrenched back just far enough to groan. You take the break to graze your lips against his neck, and he shudders beneath you, his fluffy black hair beginning to stick to his forehead from sweat.

He’s already unbearably hard and his mind was reeling from this in a way no danger, no sleepless night, ever had. He felt you shift back a little, your hand slipping lower, trailing over the bare stretch of his stomach where his shirt had ridden up, before resting with the softest pressure against his crotch. The look of asking for permission you gave him nearly broke him apart. He could only nod, his body begging for you, but more than that, his heart begging to be trusted with this.

It wasn’t just the fire of arousal that consumed him, it was the way you touched him as if he was worth handling with devotion. He had never known gentleness like this, never known safety within desire, but right now you were giving him those so easily — your lips pecking his so softly, your body guiding him instead of overwhelming him. He wanted nothing more than to return that gift, to be your harbor the way you were becoming his. His hands, though trembling, moved to help you out of the thin barrier of fabric that still stood between you, his gaze never leaving yours as if to swear again and again that your comfort was his priority. Every shift, every small intake of your breath, he caught and memorized.

Beomgyu had always held the seed of desire under his tongue and let the wild birds hawk the sky. He had dreamt of being wanted; truly wanted, not as a tool or a passing shadow — something heady and sweet and worthy to be held down. And now, when your heat finally took him in, he understood what it meant to be wanted that way.

The sudden stretch tore a moan out of you before you could stop it, and he clutched at you instinctively as you gasped, the tightness around him enough to strip him of all thought. Your face twisted with pain and pleasure, and his heart wrenched — he kissed you through it, every apology falling between your breaths, every praise spilling across your skin in a desperate attempt to soothe. His lips moving over your jaw, your temple, your mouth, anything he could reach as his hands stroked your sides. He massaged gently, trying to calm you down in the same way you had anchored him, murmuring promises into your hair that he would wait, that you could take all the time you needed.

The moonlight fell over you both, silvering the sheen of sweat on your skin, and when he saw the way your mouth parted, the way your lashes fluttered as you began to move along him, it nearly pushed him over the edge. Every slow rise and fall was a gift, every sound that slipped from you felt like a gospel in his ears that caused waves of pleasure to crash into him.

You kissed him through the waves, left him gasping, and he thought — how could one ever stop loving the ocean, even if it leaves you breathless on its shore?

“Sær.”

Somewhere in that heady haze, the name burned in the back of his mind begging to be given a shape, so Beomgyu let it fall from his lips softly and hushed between breaths. It’s the name he thought of for you. Perhaps in another moment, one that was not this, he might have chosen to tell you your given name. But here in this blissful heat of intimacy, it felt right to give you the name he had forged in the furnace of his chest. Now, when he was bare in every sense, was the only time it could have been spoken.

And the instant it passed, he felt you pausing your movements mid-press, your eyes carrying… was it shock? Disbelief? Caught in the frenzy of stumbling heartbeats he could not tell apart why his heart was pumping so loudly. Did you perhaps not like it? Were you disappointed?

“Wh–what?” your voice cracked, the sound so broken in the night air. He clenched his jaw, forced his hips to stay still when every muscle screamed to thrust upward into you. Instead he lifted a trembling hand to cup your cheek, brushing the warmth of your skin with his thumb.

“That’s the name I’ve chosen for you,” he whispered, voice rough with want, rougher with tenderness. “It means–”

“The ocean.”

Countless synonyms of the ocean to exist yet this particular one echoed in his head insistently, stubbornly, and he didn't know why but only that it fit, only that its existence belonged to you. Sær. Ocean. That was what you were to him. Endless, vast, merciless, and yet the only place he could imagine belonging. His final resting place.

Beomgyu’s eyes searched yours like a man praying for absolution when you finished the sentence for him. However, worry started to seize him when you remained quiet with eyes downcast. He pushed himself up, ignoring the way the change in angle made your walls clench tighter around him, ignoring the way his own body begged for movement, and focused only on your face. “You don’t like it?”

When he tilted your face up with his fingers on your chin, Beomgyu’s heart dropped in his stomach as he saw the tears rolling down your cheeks. Panic clawed through him. He grasped your shoulders as if trying to hold you together, his voice rushing out fast and uneven. “Are you hurt? Am I hurting you? Do you want me to stop? Tell me and I’ll stop, please—”

But you shook your head so fiercely that his words cut off, and in that frantic movement he caught the shimmer of your tears spilling freely. His chest seized, but then you were smiling through it, trembling and tearful yet radiant in a way that shone brighter than any words could have. “No—no,” you whispered, “I’ve never been happier.”

The confession sent a rush through him that loosened the taut coil of tension in his chest, replacing it with a wild, fervent heat that left him gasping against your mouth when your lips found him again, a hungry pull that drew him back into motion, your hips rolling as you seated yourself fully and began to move. Beomgyu swore something had changed right then — intoxicating him more than before.

Every drag of your slick heat around him made his lungs fight for breath, and when you rocked deeper, sinking down until he was pressed to the hilt, he nearly lost himself right there. Your gasps spilled over his mouth, your moans falling into the crook of his throat, and he thought he might die from the sheer sound of you. His hands tightened on your hips, fingers digging into the curves, and he met each thrust with a broken groan, matching your rhythm until it was impossible to tell who was guiding whom, only that you were both drowning together in the same tide.

All of a sudden you smiled at him again, and leaned close until your lips brushed his ear. You whispered your name to him.

The syllables curled inside him like fire, and he swore his vision blurred, his head snapping back against the wall as his eyes rolled and his mouth fell open around a breathy moan. He looked at you through half-lidded eyes, smiling and whispering your name back to you again and again.

Your name on his tongue made you clench around him as your essence washed over him with soft moans, and he knew he wasn’t going to last. The way your body gripped him, hot and merciless, had him groaning into your shoulder, warning through ragged breaths, “I—I’m close, I can’t—” And you nodded against his skin, letting him go, letting him pull free from your heat just as he broke. The sound that tore from him was high, keening, his throat catching on a pitch he hadn’t known he could reach, while his release painted across his abdomen and chest in hot spurts. His body trembled from the force, every muscle giving out as his head dropped back, hair sticking to his sweat-slick forehead, his whole face and neck and ears flushed a furious red.

Beomgyu watched you lean down, dragging your tongue slowly across his abdomen, licking up the taste of him mixed with salt and heat, your eyes flicking up as you paused against his stomach. That sight was so utterly erotic and filthy that he thought he might spill again right then and there.

His fingers found their way into your hair, stroking along the strands before resting on the back of your head. “Kiss me. Need to know what I taste like on your lips.”

He saw the way your face warmed but then you leaned down again, licking up more of his release before swishing it around your lips. When you pressed your mouth to his, the feeling of it had him groaning deep into you, and he clutched at your nape.

He swallowed the taste of himself mixed with you — the electricity of your touch had him drowning and soaring at once. His whole body shuddered at the intimacy of it, at the mess and the sweetness, and he thought he would gladly starve forever if only to be fed this again.

When you finally parted, leaving him panting against your mouth, he found himself smiling afterward. “You have a beautiful name.” He hoped he conveyed his earnest feelings in his words.

Beomgyu watched, mesmerized, when you laughed. You have such a beautiful smile. You had always been beautiful to him, though before you had hidden behind a disguise. But now in front of him you were stripped bare of all tricks and pretense. You were showing him your true colours and that, Beomgyu thought, made you look more breathtaking than ever.

He prayed desperately that he would not come to regret whatever had unraveled between you tonight. He prayed that your damnation might somehow free him, instead of chaining him to some future filled with remorse. But right now, with you in his arms as the two of you laid under the moonlight, it felt just right. He wished to stay like that.

On the day of the art submission, Beomgyu had to be diligent to leave the manor. Seven days until the results, they had announced, and those words had not left his head since.

He told himself over and over that if a public figure like Kwangsun took notice of him, his father would have no choice but to let him go, to let him pursue what he wanted, if only for the sake of preserving his family’s image. But the thought did not bring comfort for long and his fear knew no bounds since after all his father is quite literally a murderer.

When the sixth night bled into its end and he prepared to sink beneath the covers, a soft tap against the glass alerted him. His head shot up staring into the darkness, convinced for a moment that he had imagined it. Then it came again, twice this time. He pushed himself up, bare feet cold against the floor, and went to the window, his hand trembling slightly as he unlatched it—

“Hi.”

—too see you there.

You stood framed in the night, the silver wash of the moon outlining you, but it was not the you he knew. You weren’t draped in the light summer dresses or the casual clothes he had grown accustomed to seeing, no, tonight you wore dark garments cut close to your figure — a uniform. The sight shook him because it hinted at a life he had not yet been allowed to glimpse but that detail was not the top of his worry.

“How—how did you even manage to get in?” He was already panicking, mind racing with the thought of his father’s eyes everywhere. He stepped back just enough to let you climb in. “What if someone saw you—”

But before he could finish, you cradled his face, and your lips crashed against his with such urgency that it drove every frantic thought from his head. Lungs having the air knocked out from them, he staggered back under the force of it, his own hand shooting out to grasp your arm to steady his footing.

There was something desperate about the way you kissed him like it was the last time, as if the world would tear the two of you apart come morning, and that terrified him. A discomfort so prominent began to claw its way up in his chest that he could not push it down no matter how much he tried.

“What’s wrong?” he whispered, when you finally broke away. “Why does it feel like—like you’re about to leave me?”

You only shook your head, your forehead coming to rest against his. “Nothing’s wrong,” you whispered, though your eyes betrayed a depth that unsettled him further. Then, tilting your head back you smirked faintly, words curling off your tongue in that way of yours that always left him defenseless. “Why does it still come as a surprise to you that closeness can’t be achieved from a safe distance, hm?”

Heat shot through his face, and Beomgyu cursed himself for how easily you could melt him. Your teasing expression, paired with the uniform you wore — you looked so different but no less breathtaking that it left him stammering. He knew he looked ridiculous, stuttering for air when all you did was look at him.

You gave a gentle shake of your head again, chuckling before a tiny smile surfaced. “Everything will be okay. That’s why I came—to tell you not to be afraid, no matter what happens.” Your thumb brushed across his cheek, and your gaze never left his, steady even as his heart pounded. “The results are tomorrow, aren’t they? Believe in yourself, Beomgyu. Remember what I promised—” you paused briefly, letting your smile widen, “I will save you, and I will catch you, no matter how you fall.”

The reassurance should have calmed him, but it only heightened his unease. Inside, his chest thrashed with dread, though he kept his expression still, voice as steady as he could manage. “You’re scaring me,” he said, and it came out smaller than he wanted.

But you only laughed softly like you were helping him calm down. “I’m being practical,” you said, nudging his nose with yours. “It’s better to be prepared for anything, don’t you think?”

He hated that you were right. There was no promise that tomorrow would bring triumph. No promise that fate would land in his favor. And yet, even in that terrifying ambiguity, you spoke as if his future was not chained to chance. As if you had already written it differently for him.

So he trusted you, because even when your words hinted at farewells and hidden battles, you had never once turned away from him. What else could he do when your hand was warm against his cheek and your eyes burned with certainty?

His gaze drifted down to the uniform again, questions weighing on his tongue. “Your uh… outfit. Is it for work?” he asked.

You hummed as if the question amused you and stepped back a pace, giving a twirl as though to show yourself off. Then you shoved your hands into your pockets, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “Do I look good?”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, cheeks warming again. “You do,” he admitted. He let it stop there, did not press further, though a hundred questions burned in him. He only stared softly at the enigma of you and though you offered him crumbs of your secrets, though you showed him pieces like this, he could not bring himself to despise you or fear you for withholding the rest.

You stepped into him once more, wrapping your arms around him. He returned the embrace, burying his face against your shoulder, and that was when you whispered against his ear, “Please wait for me.”

The words throbbed in his skull. His lips parted, the question trembling on the edge of his tongue — what do you mean by that? — but he could not force it out and by the time he gathered his courage, you were already drawing away. So he only held onto the warmth of you as you climbed back through the window. Your smile was soft, and with one last look, you slipped out into the night, leaving him with nothing but the ghost of your kiss and the echo of your promise.

Dawn felt too bright, the pale gold seeping across the horizon feeling almost cruel when his body still trembled with exhaustion.

Beomgyu had not closed his eyes once, and now the morning found him pacing the length of his room. He sat at his desk and tried to sketch, his pencil scratching lines that twisted into nonsense before his frustration tore the paper apart; he reached for a book, but the letters swam before his eyes, meaningless as waves breaking against stone. He pressed his forehead against the windowpane, hoping the cool glass might still his racing thoughts, but all he could see in his reflection was a boy stretched thin between terror and hope.

Hyeeun came to him more than once, gentle in the way she hovered by the doorframe before stepping inside. She reminded him, “You’ve done your part — now it’s the world’s turn to see it.”

She guided him back into his chair when his legs refused to stop moving, brushed his hair out of his face and held his hands when they trembled too violently to keep them still. Yet her reassurances, as tender as they were, could not banish the echo of the words you had left him with at the window. They repeated endlessly, a vow that should have been comforting but instead carved at his chest with each recollection, because the tone in which you had spoken them had left behind the ache of your absence.

Every creak of the hallway, every rattle of wind against the shutters, every stray sound made his heart lurch, convinced that it was not a messenger at the door but his father, that somehow the man had already discovered everything, that the fragile shield of secrecy would shatter and crush him before he ever had the chance to dream of freedom. He sat on the edge of his bed, head in his hands, until the sound he dreaded most came — a knock at the door.

His body jerked upright, cold sweat prickling his neck, and his eyes darted to Hyeeun, who straightened slowly, her mouth pressed into a line as though she too feared what lay beyond that door. But then the voice of a servant filtered through, announcing the arrival of a letter addressed to him, and Beomgyu’s stomach twisted so violently it felt like a blade had cut through him.

The envelope, when it was placed in his shaking hands, almost dropped as his fingers faltered, and Hyeeun’s hands came to rest lightly over his own, urging him to steady himself, urging him to breathe, urging him to open it before his panic consumed him entirely. “Beomgyu,” she said in a way that did not allow disobedience, “you cannot keep fearing what is already written. You owe it to yourself to see it.”

But Beomgyu stood frozen, the envelope heavy as iron. His throat worked uselessly. “What if—” he choked, unable to finish.

What if it told him he was nothing? That every stolen hour by candlelight, every drop of blood hidden in the strokes of his brushes, every secret dream was nothing more than childish delusion?

“You’ll never know if you keep staring at it,” Hyeeun whispered, touching his wrist. Her hand was warm.

His heart hammered against his ribs, a drum of dread, until the silence became unbearable and he tore at the seal with uncoordinated hands.

At first, the words danced, and he had to blink until tears threatened to spill just to make out the letters. He read the ranking once, disbelieving. Twice, his lips trembling over the syllables. A third time, until his vision swam and the letters dissolved into black ink stains.

“It says… it says—” He laughed, a cracked sound that turned into a sob, then another, until tears blurred everything. “First,” he whispered hoarsely, “I ranked first.”

Hyeeun caught him before he collapsed entirely, guiding him down to sit. She was crying too, laughing through her own tears as she wrapped her arms around him. “You did it,” she whispered fiercely into his hair. “You really did it, Beomgyu.”

Pressing his face into her shoulder, his words spilling between broken breaths. “I’m free… I’m free, I’m really—” The rest dissolved into another wave of sobs, his body shaking so violently that the letter slipped from his fingers, fluttering onto the floor. Relief was not graceful; it was messy, all hiccups and laughtert.

The euphoria surged in him like lightning, so overwhelming it forced him to move, to act, to run. He broke from Hyeeun’s embrace with breathless apologies, grabbing his shoes without tying them, bolting through the door, through the grounds, his chest heaving with both joy and desperation. There was only one thought in his mind, one face that rose before him with unbearable longing: yours.

But the lakeside was silent. The ruins were empty. His joy collided with the void of your absence.

His throat tightened as he spun in place, searching the trees, the shadows, the horizon, certain that you would emerge, that you would keep your promise. You did not come.

But still he waited, standing at the edge of the lake with the paper of his triumph folded in his fist, the breeze catching the tears still drying on his cheeks. He whispered into the emptiness, words meant only for you, a vow as fragile as it was unyielding.

“ I’ll wait, just like before. You promised… you promised you’d come for me.”

And though the world around him stayed silent, he remained, eyes fixed on the distance, clinging to the hope that you would return.

Beomgyu welcomed each day half-convinced it had all been a fever dream, that the seal and the words naming him first place had been forged by his starving imagination. He would reach for the folded paper hidden beneath his mattress, hands shaking as he unfolded it, only to collapse into a flood of relief when the words remained the same.

Freedom was almost his, and yet the first step of victory strangely felt incomplete. He carried his sketchbook to the lakeside, to the ruins, waiting for you as he had in those early days. Sometimes he spoke aloud, as if the reeds or the broken stones might carry his words to you: “You’d laugh at how nervous I was,” he muttered one afternoon, biting back a grin that dissolved into a sigh. “I wish you could’ve seen me open it.”

Hyeeun, perceptive as always, saw the faraway look in his eyes. She once voiced her words in the passing, “She gave you courage, didn’t she? Whoever she was.” Beomgyu didn’t answer, but his blush was answer enough.

In the letter it was written that Kwangsun would be meeting the winner. Beomgyu did not know why, but his father had left for another trip on the very day you came to his window, and had been abroad ever since. He overheard the manor staff gossiping about how some “complications” arose that urgently demanded his father’s attention. Beomgyu’s subconscious clawed at him with suspicion — what if it had to do with the cases his father tried so hard to bury? Yet whatever the truth, the absence was a reprieve, buying him enough time to deal with the one thing that mattered.

The atelier was nothing like Beomgyu had imagined.

He had pictured grandeur where the sole elements would be gilded frames, marble flors, and assistants bustling in every nook and cranny. Instead, the space was alive in its chaos, full of mismatched life. There were canvases leaned against walls in crooked stacks and half-finished sketches cluttered tables. At first your senses would be a little tipsy given how strongly the air smelt of turpentine and oil. Dusty light from the tall windows struck the room unevenly casting portraits into half-shadow.

Beomgyu stood in the doorway, palms clammy, his sketch folio clutched so tightly the corners had bent. His heart stuttered with disbelief. This was real. This was him standing here, not the Assemblyman’s son caged in darkness, but Beomgyu the artist, summoned into the workshop of the very man whose name hung in every gallery.

A voice carried across the cluttered room. “So you’re the one.” Kwangsun emerged from behind a canvas, wiping his hands on a rag. His gaze swept over Beomgyu.

Beomgyu bowed low, words caught in his throat. He managed to spell out a meek greeting which the older man acknowledged with a warm nod. Kwangsun gestured toward a canvas propped on an easel — the very one that had won the competition. “I’ve looked at this for hours,” he said, stroking his beard. “It speaks with a voice I recognize. But words on canvas are one thing—hands must answer for them. Do you mind showing me if yours really do?”

Beomgyu blinked. “Show you?”

Did he not believe Beomgyu drew it? Or maybe it was a test to determine the authenticity of the choice they made. It was fair if they wanted to check.

Kwangsun nodded, his smile hidden beneath this mustache. He gestured to a nearby stool where a clay vase sat, chipped at the rim. “Draw this,” he said simply. “Let me see what you can do when the subject is plain, when beauty isn’t handed to you but must be found.”

The room seemed to shrink. Beomgyu lowered himself onto the stool, knees weak, every painting’s eyes pricking at his skin. His fingers trembled as he pulled paper from his folio, charcoal smudging his palm. For a brief, terrifying moment, he thought the pressure alone might consume him before he had even begun until the first line touched the page.

The noises dissolved, as it always did. The air, the people, even Kwangsun’s presence thinned to nothing. Only the vase existed, and his hand became a conduit between sight and truth. He followed the crack first, tracing the fracture as though it were a vein carrying grief, then the softened curve where shadow wrapped itself in reluctant embrace. Each stroke carried him deeper into the fragile imperfection that only he could see.

When he set the charcoal down, he snapped out of his trance. His throat was parched, his palms damp, his body spent as though the act had drawn something vital from him. The murmur of the atelier returned, louder now, the sound of brushes and low conversation filling the silence he had carved for himself. Beomgyu forced his gaze to stay fixed on his paper when the man leaned over the drawing, his eyes moving slowly across the page.

He said nothing for so long that Beomgyu’s pulse began to roar. Finally, the artist laughed warmly. “There is fever in these lines,” he said, voice rich, almost approving. He tapped the edge of the sketch with his finger. “A man who sees the crack first, before the whole.”

Beomgyu solemnly swore he could not figure out whether heard praise or warning. He was so nervous he felt like any moment he could be retching his guts out. Beomgyu dared to look up, searching for judgment. But there was pride in his smile.

“You’ll do well,” Kwangsun said at last. “But you must listen carefully, Beomgyu, because what I tell you now will matter more than the praise.”

He stepped back, his eyes fixed not on Beomgyu but somewhere distant, as if speaking half to the ghosts of countless apprentices before him. “Talent can survive poverty. I have seen men paint masterpieces with nothing but a stub of charcoal and a scrap of paper. It can survive ridicule. I have seen crowds laugh, only for the same work to be treasured years later. But talent cannot—will not—survive the hand that seeks to own it.”

Beomgyu frowned. “Own it?”

“Yes.” He moved closer, laying a large, warm hand on Beomgyu’s shoulder, “Protect it—protect yourself—or it will be lost before you’ve even begun.”

The adrenaline roared in his veins to the point it began to eat away his stomach. No one had ever spoken of his art as something alive or worth guarding except for two people. His throat ached, and he had to look away lest his eyes betray him.

“I will teach you what I know,” Kwangsun continued, softer now. “But it will not be an easy road. You’ll work until your bones protest, and some days you’ll hate the sight of a brush. Still—if you endure, you’ll carve a place no one can take from you.” He paused, studying Beomgyu’s face. “Do you understand?”

Beomgyu nodded, though his voice cracked when he said, “Yes, sir.”

Kwangsun laughed again, giving his shoulder a light squeeze. “No ‘sir.’ You’re not a soldier, and I’m not your jailer. Call me teacher if you must, but I’d prefer Kwangsun. We’ll walk this path together—not above and below, but side by side. You’ll stumble, I’ll correct you, and one day, you’ll correct me too. That’s how this works.”

Such warm words were given out so selflessly, beomgyu could not believe his ears. The tremor in his chest eased. This man, with his blunt truths and warm regard, was nothing like his father. He almost laughed at the thought, almost wept too. Standing here, Beomgyu realized he was being offered more than apprenticeship.

He wondered what sacrifice was made for this kind of luck on his side, but he was grateful, and he wanted to guard this luck.

Beomgyu has been flying for a while now, and has flown quite high.

Whispers in the manor reminded him reality was not suspended forever. Servants spoke of news and rumors from abroad, of the Assemblyman’s swift dealings and the likelihood of his return. Beomgyu pretended not to listen, though his stomach coiled with each word. He buried that fear beneath canvases and sketches, pretending the hours in Kwangsun’s workshop were enough to keep the outside world at bay.

But dread has a way of seeping back in, no matter how many colors one paints over it.

One evening, Hyeeun entered his room with folded hands, watching him pack away another sketch. She spoke softly, as though unwilling to startle the fragile bubble he lived in. “Has Master Kwangsun mentioned… any plans about you moving out of this house?”

Beomgyu paused. “Soon,” he replied, there was a glint of relief beneath his words. “Preparations has started. He already knows about you. I told him I wouldn’t leave without you.” Though beomgyu wished the procedure was fastened, he was grateful it even started.

Her eyes warmed, though a crease of worry remained between her brows. “It comforts me to hear it, but…” She hesitated, pressing her thumb against her palm. “How do you plan on breaking this to your father?”

“When he sees how deep I’ve stepped into this path—how much I’ve already built—and when he realizes Kwangsun stands behind me, he won’t be able to stop it. He values his reputation more than anything. To deny Kwangsun’s offer would be to smear his own image. He won’t risk it.” The firmness in his voice felt foreign to him but it felt good speaking. That man would not tarnish his reputation by refusing the offer of a well known artist when the entire world would be watching.

Hyeeun looked toward the window, where the sky burned with the faint traces of dusk. Her voice lowered, more to herself than to him. “They say he might take longer to return. There are… complications, it seems. Great ones. Perhaps something has already happened.” Her tone thinned into a whisper, heavy with foreboding. “Or is coming.”

Beomgyu caught her words, but he let them pass, unwilling to let shadows spoil what little brightness he had managed to claim.

He waits by the lakeside for you, strolling the ruins daily, looking forward to seeing you again to fill up the hollow space in him that couldn't be filled up by his art’s success. Perhaps he should've asked you about yourself instead of making you carry his sorrow. Perhaps he should’ve been more open about his feelings. Perhaps then you’d taken him with you, wherever you went.

The sun wasn’t out that afternoon. It was buried beneath a sky of heavy clouds that sagged low, threatening to burst open yet holding its rain hostage. Beomgyu rubbed his hands together and blew into them, the cold clinging to his skin like needles. He watched the sky darken further, a faint rumble chasing across the heavens.

He had returned earlier than usual from waiting by the lakeside.

As he stepped into the premises of the manor, something twisted in his gut. A thunderclap tore across the distance, startling him into loosening the collar at his throat, pulling at it to release the suffocating press of air against his lungs. There was no reason to feel so unsettled, no reason for his pulse to climb like a trapped animal’s… he must be tired that's why he felt so restless.

Still, when he pushed the heavy door of the manor open, his gaze immediately caught on the figure standing just inside the entrance hall. A maid, one of Hyeeun’s most trusted, stood frozen near the wall, her hands trembling at her sides, eyes locked on him with such stark terror that his feet stopped of their own accord. The blood in his veins seemed to turn cold under that stare.

The moment his eyes met hers, she stumbled forward almost tripping over the hem of her skirt in her desperation to reach him. She lowered her head, but not in the usual, respectful manner. It was more like she was trying to conceal the panic twisting her features. When she drew close enough her words spilled out in a broken rush with a quiet tone as if she was afraid to let them fall into the wrong ears.

“M-my lord—” her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard, eyes darting to the side before darting back to him. “The sire… the sire has returned.”

Beomgyu felt his vision sway. Returned? His father was not supposed to be here so soon. He was not supposed to return until a few more weeks.

“He—he came back alone,” the maid stammered on, her breath hitching as her fingers twisted together, knuckles white with strain. “No men at his side, not even the secretary. I saw him… I saw him myself, walking through the doors with n-no word of his coming. He—” Her voice wavered, then broke entirely, her body trembling so violently it seemed she might collapse at his feet.

Beomgyu reached out instinctively, gripping her shoulders to steady her. He tried to force calm into his voice. “Breathe,” he said, though his own breaths came short. “Tell me slowly. What happened? What did he do?”

She shook her head, strands of hair slipping loose as she lifted her face to look him dead in the eyes. The fear carved there was so raw it hollowed his stomach.

“He knows.”

Beomgyu’s blood ran cold. His grip on her shoulder tightened unconsciously as the words echoed in his mind over and over again. Terror seized him to the point he could do nothing but stare at her blankly.

She continued, desperately trying to keep her voice low. “He—he looked furious, more than I’ve ever seen. He ransacked your things and—and—he is waiting in the living room.”

A heavy pounding started behind Beomgyu’s temples, his heartbeat crashing in his ears. He simply managed to ask, “Where is Hyeeun?”

Her eyes widened, her lips parted in a soundless gasp before she shook her head, almost frantically. “I—I don’t know. She was in the kitchen this morning. No one has seen her since.” Her voice broke into a sob, quickly swallowed down as she pressed a hand against her mouth.

Everything around him seemed to fall silent. Every sound swallowed into a thin shrill ringing that pressed against his skull. Beomgyu forced himself to breathe. He could not let his mind run toward the darkest possibilities yet. If his father wanted to face him, then let it be faced. There was no escaping it now.

He steadied his voice enough to tell the maid to leave at once, to gather her fellow servant and not return no matter what they heard. She hesitated, but his insistence gave her the courage to bow and hurry away down the corridor. Once she disappeared, the silence returned, deeper than before. Beomgyu turned toward the corridor that led to the living room, and his legs carried him forward though each step felt as though it sank him into the floor.

He stared at the doorknob like it might sear his skin the moment he touched it. A tightness rose in his chest, breaths coming too shallow, too fast — he closed his eyes, dragged air down his throat until it burned. Was everything he had fought for already collapsing? What if he walked inside and then his future collapsed? Should he turn, find Hyeeun, vanish into the world outside these walls before the trap shut completely? The thoughts clawed at him, frantic, but at last his trembling hand reached out and turned the knob.

The curtains were drawn closed, making the room dark; the only source of light was the fireplace. In the center of the carpet lay a mound so out of place it wrenched the blood from his face — brushes snapped in half, sketchbooks and canvases torn, jars of pigment overturned, their colors bleeding together into an ugly stain. His whole world, piled like refuse waiting for the torch.

His gaze drifted, following the line of the hearth to the sofas. The Assemblyman, his father, sat slouched in the single chair, broad shoulders bent, one hand hanging loose over the armrest, the other resting against his temple. His back was facing beomgyu.

“You finally showed up.”

He had braced himself for that voice to cleave him open, to summon the familiar dread that had ruled his boyhood. Yet, curiously, nothing broke inside him. Instead all he felt was a strange calm. Perhaps he’s been dreading this moment for far too long, and years of fear now finally died out in this moment. Or maybe, this was emotional numbness masquerading as resolve.

Beomgyu stepped forward until only a few paces separated him from the chair, his eyes fixed on the back of that bent head.

“Father.”

The man gave a weak, rasping snort, a sound so careless that it raised a faint tension in Beomgyu’s shoulders. His fingers twitched at his side as he followed the movement of his father’s hand as it dipped into his coat and pulled out an envelope. Beomgyu’s pulse surged when his eyes recognized the seal. So his father had managed to find it when he ransacked his room. It made all sense now — he looked at the pile again — why all his tools were dragged here.

“I was waiting,” Beomgyu said, each word calm though his mind was already racing ahead, laying stones for the path he needed his father to walk. “Waiting for you to come home so I could tell you myself. This isn’t something I meant to hide forever.”

The lie slid from his tongue smoothly. His mind, trained to cower, found itself instead sharpening, wielding deceit like a blade. Manipulation — yes. It was the only weapon he could use against this man, powerful enough to turn his father’s hunger for reputation back upon him. If the Assemblyman wanted to polish his name, Beomgyu would trap him with that very hunger.

His father slowly stood up with an unsteady groan. His legs betrayed him with a slight sway, and Beomgyu’s frown deepened as he took in the disheveled shirt, the collar sagging, the faint smell of sour drink that reached him across the room. Something was wrong — more wrong than usual — but he kept his shoulders squared.

The man’s lip curled into a crooked half-smile as he stumbled a step closer. “What’s this I hear, huh? You actually caught Kwangsun’s eye?” His voice rasped, slurred in the edges. “Ha… guess you’re not as useless as I thought.” He lurched forward another step, the scuff of his boots dragging across the floor, his gaze slipping in and out of focus as if Beomgyu were both present and far away.

Beomgyu did not move back, though the smell of him pressed close. “Yes,” he said, forcing calm into his tone, “it’s better this way, isn’t it? You won’t have to bear the sight of me here. No more disappointments. No more wasted years. This apprenticeship means I’ll be out of this house, away from your sight. You won’t have to feed me, you won’t have to think of me, not once.” His words tumbled with a quiet desperation disguised in reason, laid out like terms of peace, though his hands curled into fists where his father could not see.

The older man let out a low grunt, blinking slowly, his eyes glassy with distraction. His head tilted as if the words reached him through thick fog. He gave a nod that was more of a wobble, muttering sounds that were neither agreement nor refusal. Beomgyu felt the tension coil in his stomach as he searched his father’s hands, his coat pockets, scanning for any glint of metal or object of hidden threat. Finding none, he subtly sighed in relief.

“Beomgyu,” the man gruffed. “Didn’t I tell you… never to touch a paintbrush?”

Beomgyu almost scoffed at his words. His jaw clenched as he forced himself to look at the man, to meet the half-glazed eyes that barely seemed to register his presence. “Father, do you think this will be in your best interest? Turning down the decision of someone like Kwangsun when words have reached the ears of the public that he chose me as his apprentice? Will you stand in front of them all and spit on his name? Will you risk that?”

His blood roared in his veins, heated by anger he had swallowed for too long, a fury that had fermented in the dark years of his youth and now clawed its way out with teeth and fire. For a fleeting, dangerous moment, he forgot that the man before him had killed, had destroyed lives without remorse, and had carved scars into Beomgyu’s own flesh and spirit. All he felt now was the raw burn of defiance.

He drew in a breath, forced it out slowly, as though pacing himself against the urge to strike. These words, so deceptively calm on his tongue, cost him more strength than it looked, and at that moment, he did not know where he got this courage but only one thing played in his mind.

“You’re braver than you think, though you’re still a little too scared to take the first step.” — they echoed inside him as if you were standing there with him, unseen but nearer than the floor beneath his feet.

This was him taking the first step. This was him setting his bravery free. He almost smiled, how even in your absence, even facing the man who haunted his every nightmare, you had given him the push to stand.

His father remained where he was, his gaze cast to the ground, his face shadowed in the glow of the fire. He did not speak, did not even seem to breathe. For his freedom, Beomgyu would do what it took to survive, even if it meant gambling everything on this single confrontation. When the silence stretched unbearably long, Beomgyu shifted forward, lips parting to speak again, but the scrape of his father’s voice broke the air before he could.

“All my life,” his father rasped, “I built myself from reputation. That was my empire, my throne, my kingdom. I bled for it, tore down others for it, did whatever it took to keep my name above theirs.” He began to shuffle closer with his eyes still lowered. “Power in my hands meant no door was closed to me. And I used it. All of it. Until there was nothing left I could not touch.”

Each heavy step he took toward Beomgyu only reverberated louder in his ears. “To taint that prestige… to soil it now, after all I’ve done… that would be unbearable, wouldn’t it? Hah… to deny Kwangsun’s decision, to call the son I have adopted unworthy when the world has already heard otherwise…”

Beomgyu’s throat tightened as his father’s shadow fell across him. He placed a hand on his shoulder and Beomgyu stiffened under it. The odd gentleness in that specific touch did not make sense at all, but what threw him off even more was when his father embraced him, arms folding around Beomgyu in a manner so alien that it froze him in place.

The contact was loose yet suffocating all the same. It made Beomgyu’s skin crawl.

“Beomgyu… you are right. The public must already know of the apprenticeship.”

Those words were so strangely reasonable, almost resigned, that made him wonder if he succeeded in manipulating his father. Was this concession real, or another mask?

The man’s mouth was close enough to his ear for the whisper to feel like a draft of winter down his spine, “But who cares what the public says? Or Kwangsun? What good are their words when my reputation is already rotting?”

Beomgyu’s chest tightened, not from the words but from the sudden fist that crashed into his diaphragm with a force that emptied his lungs in a single violent rush. The air burst out of him in a strangled gasp, pain ricocheting through his ribs, bending his body forward before his mind caught up that he had been struck. The floor caught him hard, and he collapsed in a fit of coughing, his throat convulsing as he tried to drag breath back into his body.

Through the blur of tears stinging his eyes, he lifted his head, only to see his father looming above mirroring a creature possessed by something far more feral. The familiar predatory glint had returned, burning in his eyes as though no human thought remained behind them. His chest heaved with erratic breaths, shoulders twitching as his hands rose to his own scalp, raking through his hair until tufts stood uneven. He dragged his fingers against his temples, muttering hoarsely, words spilling in broken fragments to himself.

“Ruined… I’m ruined now… it’s all gone, all of it… what I built, gone, gone—” He wheezed with unfocused eyes as though chasing invisible threats. “I made sure of it, I made sure the fire took them. The journalists… that man, his wife—I made sure they burned. I made fucking sure of it.” His voice cracked into a rasp as spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth, his breaths breaking into short, ragged pulls. “But her… their daughter—she should have died with them, she should have died—” He broke off, shaking his head violently, hands clamping tighter on his skull. “No… no, she’s still here, she’s still breathing, she’s behind all this, I can feel it, she’s pulling at the strings, mocking me—mocking—”

Beomgyu, sprawled on the ground and clutching his stomach, could only stare, horror stitching his features as his father raved. The madness in his father’s voice was worse than the strike had been. He tried to rise but his body didn’t cooperate and he had to crawl backward away from his father.

A finger, trembling yet vicious, stabbed the air in Beomgyu’s direction. “I gave you a roof over your fucking head, and this is how you repay me?” the man howled, his voice splitting under its own strain. “I dragged you out of that rotting orphanage, gave you a name, and you think you can spit on me? You think you can run, leave me to rot while you go prancing off into the world, chasing dreams that don’t belong to you? No—no, no, no—I won’t let you go, you hear me? You’ll choke here with me, like you should’ve from the start.”

A violent tug on his hair ripped Beomgyu upward, his body jerking with the movement, his cry strangled into silence by the iron grip at his scalp. His father’s face loomed too close, the spit flying from his mouth catching the light of the hearth, his eyes fever-bright with fury. Beomgyu was hurled back down. His shoulder cracked against the floor, and before he could even roll away, the man kicked his ribs knocking what little air remained in his lungs free in a guttural cough. His vision clouded, sparks dancing at the edges as he groaned in pain trying to get up.

“Disobedient trash,” his father spat, towering above him, chest heaving like a bellows. “That’s all you are. That’s all you’ll ever be. Nothing but filth dressed up in a borrowed name.”

Beomgyu could only half-focus through the haze when his father stormed from the room then returned almost immediately with a metal container. His hand shook so violently that drops sloshed against the rim and splattered dark stains onto the floorboards.

The acrid stench hit Beomgyu’s nose before the sight did, and horror clawed at his chest as the realization unfurled. “No—please, don’t—” he begged, dragging himself forward on his elbows, desperate to stop what his words never could.

His father knocked his hand aside with a vicious swat as though batting a fly. He poured without pause, the liquid hissing as it soaked into the pile. The container clattered against the ground as it was flung away, replaced by the glint of a lighter flicking alive in his palm. The tiny flame wavered, yet in that moment it was more monstrous than any weapon.

Beomgyu’s heart thrashed against his ribs as he dragged himself forward, his voice cracking into a scream that felt ripped from the marrow of his bones. “Stop—please, please!”

But the plea was devoured by the roar that came when flame met fuel. In a breath, the pile was consumed, the fire leaping with a hunger that mocked the boy’s desperation, devouring canvases, brushes, dreams, until only ash would remain. The scene became hazy and Beomgyu didn't know whether it was the tears or the smoke that caused it.

His father held up the envelope, the final proof of Beomgyu’s triumph, the seal of his apprenticeship, dangling it like a trophy between two fingers. “This too,” he sneered, his voice cracking into gravelly laughter, “let it burn with the rest.” He tossed it into the flames, and in seconds, it was gone, curling into nothing but blackened fragments that rose into the choking air.

His freedom had been within reach, so close he could almost taste it on his tongue, and now it was nothing more than ash and flame before his eyes, dissolving into smoke that choked his lungs and blurred the world into a shifting haze. He couldn't bear to watch it anymore as he dropped his head. How did things end up like this? Everything had been turning in his favor then how — How, how, how, how—

His father crouched down beside him, slapping him hard before tugging on his hair and forced his face up to watch. The acrid heat of the fire licked against his skin, and though the man’s words hit his ears, Beomgyu didn't make a single sound this time. He hardly felt any pain anymore.

“Consider yourself lucky that you’re not the one burning, boy,” he spat. “Let me warn you,” he went on, pausing long enough to grind his grip tighter into Beomgyu’s scalp, jerking his head like a doll, “if I find you plotting behind my back again—then I’ll send you to where I’ve sent that woman.”

What…?

There was a static buzz filling his mind. Everything around him seemed to slow down and the world began resting on his eyelids, the backdrop a white noise to his ears. But the ground moved — breaking apart and in the haziness, Beomgyu caught sight of a broken piece of an easel leg, one end burning.

Beomgyu wrapped his fingers around the charred wood, his palm seared by its heat, and he flung it forward with all the power left in his frame. The wood cracked across his father’s face, a flash of burning flesh and the guttural shriek that followed cutting through the roar in Beomgyu’s ears. The man fell back shrieking in excruciating pain.

Beomgyu breathed through his mouth as he staggered upright, the ringing in his voice getting louder with each passing second. He threw his head back, squeezing his eyes shut to get his vision cleared, but once he opened them and looked at his father — all he saw was red.

His father writhed at his feet, squirming like some wounded beast, curses breaking and slurring together into a maddened chant that made Beomgyu feel sick.

“You killed her?” Beomgyu asked, voice hoarse. He stumbled towards his father, bending down to grab him by the collar with shaking hands. “Did you kill her?” His fist drew back and then slammed down, the room was filled with a deafening sound of his fist colliding with his father’s nose. “Answer me, you bastard! Did you kill her?” Beomgyu wailed, his throat burning.

His father choked on blood, eyes rolling to the back of his head as he went in and out of consciousness. His limbs spasmed with weak, pitiful jerks, yet Beomgyu only scoffed through tears that burned his cheeks, the salt stinging his split lip. A crooked smile tore across his face, blood staining his teeth as he spat, “You fucking asshole.”

His gaze wandered the ruined room, hunting for focus through the haze, until it latched onto the shattered vase near his father’s head. The porcelain shards glimmered faintly, the roses strewn in disarray across the floorboards, their petals bruised and torn. It was the vase he had painted.

Memory is a punishment. Memory is a gun you load yourself. You pray it jams, it never does.

His throat convulsed as a sob broke loose. He recognized the roses — not the previously withered ones he had painted weeks ago, but a fresh bouquet Hyeeun must have placed there. The thought of Hyeeun only made sobs after sobs fall from his lips. Amidst his breakdown, Beomgyu felt his father move beneath him, desperate to crawl away. His father’s eyes flicked open for a fraction, wild and terrified, and in that fractured instant something just snapped inside Beomgyu.

Time seemed to pass in slow motion again. The static in his mind grew and so did the ringing. His hand clutched around a broken piece of the vase as he held his hand up straight above his head. The deafening sound in his ears got louder and the next moments were all a blur.

There is a bitter triumph in crashing when you should be soaring.

All Beomgyu remembered was screaming — so much — that he couldn't even hear his own screams after a while. He dimly registered the fire behind him swelling, the crackle of flames devouring fabric and wood and smoke that behan to suffocate him. His father’s body sagged into stillness at some unknown point, the blood spreading like a dark tide beneath him.

Slowly, the world began to focus again, but he couldn’t stop trembling.

He stared in utter horror at his hands — drenched in red; the piece of broken vase fell from his grasp as shock paralyzed him. He fell back on the ground, his breathing was erratic as it left him dizzy.

“What have I done?”

A rewritten tragedy.

His thirst for freedom, for the promise of a new beginning, had carried him to this very brink. Beomgyu thought he heard a voice, faint and muffled as though spoken from underwater, calling his name through the crackle of burning wood. The sound brushed against his ears, but his mind could not hold on to it. He heard footsteps — they were getting closer. His vision frantically searched around for that voice. But his mind was too far gone to process anything properly.

Everything came to a halt when his eyes fell on the yellow roses. They were smeared in blood this time. How unfortunate. Beomgyu always knew red and yellow were unfitting.

Looking deeper, yellow was the colour of creativity. When red splattered on the flower — it was almost as if it mocked Beomgyu by showing how his father had disapproved of the artistic creative path undertaken by him; how his hopes, a chance of a new beginning, were snatched away.

The fire stretched across every surface, breathing, eating, multiplying without restraint, until there was no part of the room that had not been swallowed by it. He sat in the middle of it, dazed, thinking what life might have been had he chosen differently, had he been allowed to choose at all. He let his gaze move slowly from one ruin to the next.

There is a certain beauty in setting the world on fire and watching from the center of the flames.

Maybe he was always meant to fall, like Icarus, wings scorched and torn, his brief taste of freedom punished by fire. Maybe freedom wasn't meant for him at all. And yet, he found himself bargaining, whispering prayers to gods that had never once answered, asking to be remade — if not in this life, then in another. Let him rise again, if only from ashes, even if he had to crawl back into light with burnt skin and hollow lungs. Let him begin again, somewhere far from this room, far from this blood.

As toxic fumes crowded his lungs and visions, he only thought where you could be. Would you come as you once promised, would you catch him before the fall? He felt himself slip, falling, falling, his wings reduced to tattered ash, unable to hold him aloft. He thought of Icarus again, how the boy must have felt in that last moment — not regret, but the sick recognition that the sun had never been meant to touch him.

All of this must be a cruel dream, otherwise why would he feel arms embracing him?

No… solid, real, too real for a dream.

The embrace cut through smoke, cutting through flame, and a scent he knew so well filled his senses until the fire itself felt distant. He let his eyes close, too heavy to keep open, his body folding into the embrace as his mind slipped into silence.His last thought, before darkness took him whole, was of you.

The field stretched wide, the grass tall enough to brush against your knees as you wandered deeper into the thicket where the laughter of the other children faded into the distance. You hadn’t meant to stray so far, only to chase the sound of cicadas or perhaps the flutter of wings overhead, but soon the shade of the trees swallowed the sunlight whole and the paths all blurred into the same directionless green. The more you tried to remember which way your parents had gone, the more the ache in your chest grew until your small hands trembled around the kalimba clutched to your chest.

You sat on a root, cheeks damp, and began pressing the metal tines. The tune was crooked and uneven, but it was the only one you knew — the lullaby your parents sang at night when shadows frightened you. Tears slid over your round cheeks as you played, each chime carrying your wish that they would hear and come find you.

It wasn’t your parents who came. It was a boy, no older than you, stepping out from between the trees with a look of wonder fixed on you. His hair was untidy, his palms smudged with dirt as though he had been running and climbing long before he found you. His eyes drew first to the kalimba in your lap, then to the tears across your face.

“What are you playing?” he asked, tilting his head with a grin. He was missing two teeth. “It sounds really nice.”

You sniffled, shrinking into yourself before whispering that it was the song your parents always sang to you. He nodded as though that explained everything, then crouched down in the dirt so you didn’t have to look up.

“I’m Beomgyu,” he said, the words tumbling out enthusiastically, and then, when you didn’t reply, he said it again, louder and slower, as if maybe you hadn’t heard him the first time. “Beomgyu! That’s me, an artist! What’s your name?”

You shook your head, lips pressed shut, because your parents had always told you not to give your name to strangers. The boy tapped his chin, clearly thinking. “That’s okay. We’ll pretend we’re adventurers, yeah? And right now our quest is to find your family!” His grin widened at his own idea, and he sprang up, brushing off his knees and already setting off. Then he paused, turning back toward you with sudden seriousness. “But you need a name too. Every adventurer needs one. Imagine you earned it because you just became an adventurer. It’s more interesting this way, isn’t it?”

You stared at him warily, wiping your cheeks with your sleeves. His eyes were so bright with excitement that it made refusal difficult. “I read a book once,” he went on, his hands waving as though to capture the memory. “It was really hard, full of words I didn’t understand because it was for grown-ups, but there was one word that stuck with me. It was so pretty I couldn’t forget it.” He bent down again, close enough that his hair nearly brushed yours, and whispered like it was a secret meant for you alone.

“Sær. That’ll be your name.”

When your eyes opened, there was no field, no sunlight, no boy kneeling in front of you. Only the cliff’s jagged edge beneath your legs and the distant roar of fire consuming the manor. Flames licked through windows, black smoke spilling upward in heavy coils that smothered the sky. It had just started swallowing the manor. From this distance, the destruction was strangely muted, like watching a stage set collapse from the back row. Somewhere behind you, thunder muttered over the mountain. You lowered your gaze and closed your eyes once more before opening again to fix on the manor.

Boots crunched on gravel behind you. Without looking, you knew who it was.

“Congratulations. The assemblyman has died. Your mission is a success.”

You did not turn. The fire reflected faintly in your gaze, and you kept it there, unblinking. You wanted to see how far they could reach. “Have you done what I asked you, Taehyun?”

A low hum came first, then the scuff of shoes on stone as Taehyun shifted his weight. You could hear the faint metallic click of keys in his pocket as he glanced back toward the car parked a little down the slope. “See for yourself,” he said finally, a grin audible in the lilt of his tone.

Your head turned, just slightly, enough to catch the sight of the vehicle. Through the window, an unconscious woman lay under a blanket. This was not the meeting you’d wanted with her, but it was also inevitable and your chest tightened once before settling again. “Have you been gentle with her?” you asked, the question leaving you coldly.

Taehyun gave a short laugh, scratching at the back of his neck as he strolled toward the car. “Of course. I’m a gentleman, aren’t I? There’s no way I’d handle an elderly woman without respect.” He tugged the blanket higher over her shoulders as he spoke, glancing back at you with a lopsided grin. “She was frightened at first, naturally, but it went smoothly otherwise. No harm done to her… as for the other men… hehe.”

Taehyun’s face cleaned off the grin as he came up behind you. A seriousness clad his tone which wasn’t there moments ago. “What are you planning to do with the boy?”

“It is none of your concern what I do with my pawns,” you answered coolly.

Taehyun’s laugh that follows is not bright.“Pawn?” he repeats, beyond amused. “Don’t insult my memory. I’ve seen your pawns over the years, how you move them, how you dress them up when they are useful and how fast you set them aside once they have done what you wanted. I haven’t seen one like him before. Don’t bother to dress this in lies for me.”

Silence grows in the space between the two of you, but it is not empty; it tastes of ash and the metallic aftertastes of old plans. Your eyes narrowed slightly as sparks shot out of the broken windows.

Taehyun perhaps sensed your unwillingness to further entertain his remarks. One good thing about him is he knows when to step back. Hence when he spoke again, he gently reminded you of the reality of your world.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said, a patient warning that is practical rather than moral. “We are puppeteers. That’s all we’ve ever been. We pull strings, make pawns dance, send them into the fire so we don’t have to. That’s our purpose—to cut down the filth that the so-called justice system is too rotten to touch. But our world is not his. And if you think of bringing him closer, then you’re dragging him into this hell with us.”

You looked down at your hands, at the faint scar along your palm that felt old and thin as paper under the light, then lifted your eyes to the house. The fire roared louder and you could almost hear it overlapping with the sound of wood snapping from long ago. You swallowed, the taste of ash still clinging to your tongue after all these years.

“All my life I wanted only one thing,” you say, and the sentence is small against the breadth of the scene. “To destroy the man who burned my entire world to ash in a single night. My parents died all because they tried to expose his corruption; they lit a match to the truth and he doused the evidence just like that. I don’t even know how I survived that night.” You paused, breathing in slightly as the memory still haunted you.

Even though Taehyun knew your story, he remained silent and let you speak. You mentally thanked him for it.

“He bribed everyone, paid to make it seem like a tragic accident, buried all the leads and soon the case was closed.” You smiled sadly. “His only mistake was never making sure if I died too.”

Watching the flames swallow his house felt like examining a completed equation — a cause and a consequence matched with a blunt, terrible neatness — how fitting, that he should burn in the very way he once burned down your home. He was meant to die this way, by hands he thought he could order and by a vengeance he had never expected to meet.

Taehyun once again asked — “What about Choi Beomgyu?” — this time, uttering his name. It caused your heart to ache more than you had expected.

When you were given the file, you thought at last the axis of your life would tilt back into place; for years your hunger had been a compass that never wavered, and the dossier looked like the map you had waited for: names, dates, receipts of bribes, a record of how your parents’ killer’s influence had suffocated every attempt at truth.

Seeing Beomgyu’s name on the paper did something at once absurd and obscene — you remembered the child at the park who was once your savior and the terrible neatness of history when it folds itself so that the wrong people receive mercy and the right ones are crushed. You could only laugh bitterly to yourself back then because the boy from your past had been placed under the care of the very man you had sworn to kill, and the irony tasted like betrayal; in that first hour you made a decision that was blinded by revenge: use what you had been given, treat him like a tool, turn the son into an instrument to remove the father.

You had told yourself you would use Beomgyu, that he would be no more than the main piece set upon the board, an expendable pawn in your long game of retribution. For a time, it even seemed possible. He fit into the parts you expected; he believed the lies you fed him like the pomegranate seeds. And then the plan started to fray at its edges because he kept being, in ways that were not convenient, human. Bruises that mended but did not disappear, flinches at certain words, an almost-childish eagerness at small mercies, a patience that was not the same as weakness.

There were nights you watched him without revealing yourself and found yourself cataloguing his kindnesses like contraband. The more you observed, the more the old certainties you had dressed yourself in — the rhetoric of necessary cruelty, the comfort of being a shadow that arranges people into ends — began to fall apart into a different shape; instead of the cold efficiency you had promised yourself, you felt relief that he was not a mirror of the man you wanted to destroy, and that relief drew an entirely different feeling — care.

It was dangerous, ridiculous, and intoxicating in the worst way — to care for the one whose life could be the tool for your justice — but it was also, for the first time since the night that took everything from you, the truest thing you had felt as a puppeteer. A sharp, selfish, startling desire to save him rather than to use him. Attachment settled not as a concession but as an insistence; the tactics you had deployed so many times without question now tasted like betrayal of your own principles, because to hand him over to violence would be to commit the very injustice you had spent a life trying to rectify. You rehearsed every argument inside your head until the reasons to spare him stacked like stones and each stone became another refusal to let the mission reduce him to a means. You wanted to save him from the cage built around him. You wanted to be his salvation.

“We only kill those who truly deserve it. We always make sure of that, don’t we, Taehyun?” you asked softly.

From where he stood behind you, Taehyun exhaled, the faintest sound of acknowledgment reaching you. “That’s right.”

You then say the thing that rearranges the plan in one small sentence. “Choi Beomgyu doesn’t deserve that.”

You had wanted to harm him because of who his father was, because the ledger of pain called for balancing, but that would be a subtraction of justice by a different name. To hurt him would be to become the rot you had sworn to excise. The doctrine you once cultivated — that the ends sanctify the means — now tasted like ash when the means was Beomgyu. You will not lie to Taehyun about the line you are crossing, because the truth is the only currency left that matters.

“I talked to Choi Beomgyu that day,” he said, as though recalling a casual meeting, though there was a trace of thoughtfulness woven into it. “He did seem like a decent guy. After speaking with him, I caught myself thinking that maybe, under different circumstances, or in another life entirely, I’d have wanted to be his friend.” He gave a short laugh at his own admission, almost surprised by it, then carried on without missing a beat. “I see why you like him. To think you went so far for him. You pulled so many strings behind the scene—perfectly planning the leaflet handover so that old woman would be the one to give him the news of the art competition, making sure Kwangsun noticed his piece. And these were just the surface elements. You really are… the most vicious puppeteer of our generation.”

His voice carried a note of admiration, though the words themselves cut. He clicked his tongue, as if sealing his judgment. “He had waited all his life for freedom, and it killed him the moment it found him.”

You turned your head just enough to catch his profile from the corner of your eye, and the look you gave him stopped him cold. It was not rage, not even anger — it was colder than that, and for a second he seemed to forget the air in his lungs. “Watch what you say, Kang Taehyun,” you said calmly, which contradicted the underlying threat in your words.

He lifted both hands as if to ward off the weight of your gaze, his lips curling into a nervous chuckle that betrayed his retreat. “Alright, alright,” he murmured, his hands lowering just as easily again. “I’ll keep my mouth in check.”

You remained quiet for a brief moment before finding yout voice again. “He only wanted freedom. That’s all. It wasn’t his fault. None of it was ever his fault.” Your eyes returned to the flames. “I thought if I helped him find it, if I saved him from that man… then I could atone for my sins. Maybe then my parents could rest in peace.” A shallow breath caught in your chest, though your expression did not break. “That man is dead, but my parents are not coming back. Still… at least Beomgyu is free. I thought that maybe, if I saved him, I’d finally feel like I had accomplished something.”

Taehyun hummed, considering your words. “Normal life is gone for him now. To the world, he died tonight in that fire alongside his father. His only choice now is to vanish, build a new name, disappear into another country. Unless…” His eyes slid toward you, narrowing faintly. “Unless you’d rather he joins us. Becomes one of us.”

You shook your head solemnly. “I won’t be dumping such a decision on him to make alone. I’ll be there with him, sorting through every bit of it. He won’t carry this alone, not if I can help it.”

For a moment Taehyun stood over you, his silhouette bent against the restless light of the fire, then he crouched beside you with a sigh. One hand landing on your shoulder with more care than he was known for. “Do you think he’ll forgive you?” he asked, eyes softening as though the question itself pained him. “For what you’ve done? The lies, the secrets, all the deceptions, what if all of that leaves him scorning the sight of you?”

Perhaps you would live the rest of your days under the shadow of Beomgyu’s resentment, and you knew you deserved as much. He had every right to despise you, to spit your name like venom, for while he had shown you warmth in a life that had offered him little else, you had responded with deception, weaving strings around him until he had been caught in a net of your puppet-play. He had been given to you as though by fate, and perhaps fate had meant it as punishment.

“If he hates me then that’s what I’ll carry. I’ll let him see me for who I am. I’ll stand in front of him as myself,” you said at last, not forcing steadiness into your tone, only allowing the truth to rise unadorned. “He has a heart… kinder than the world allowed him, softer than I deserved. I can only hope that one day he will use that heart to forgive me.”

Taehyun rose with a long breath and cast his gaze toward the manor which had become little more than a glowing carcass collapsing into itself. Soon the journalists and fire engines would flood the scene, and by morning the newspapers would write of the assemblyman’s death, his estate reduced to ash, and his son gone with him. The lie would be cemented in ink before the sun rose.

He checked his phone, its glow lighting his face for an instant before he slid it back into his pocket. “My men delivered what you asked for,” he told you, tone clipped by the urgency of time running thin. “A body’s been taken from the morgue, charred beyond recognition. It’s in his place already. We should move quickly before the press takes over.”

You made a sound in acknowledgment and pushed yourself to your feet, brushing ash and dust from the hem of your uniform. Taehyun had already turned toward the car waiting down the dirt path but when he noticed you veering toward the scorched path that led back to the manor, he stopped in his tracks. “Where are you going?” he called out, the urgency in his tone did not sway you.

“I made a promise,” you said with a small smile, every step carrying you closer to the blaze. You did not look back. “And I intend to fulfill it.”

The flames spat and roared, painting your outline against the night, and as you walked toward the burning ruin, you thought of the boy who had yearned for a gentler life but had never been granted it. Freedom burned him instead of warming him.

His sun was never gentle to him, so let his ocean be.

THE END.

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